Scar Tissue

This girl, she admires her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Tries to pretend that she isn't looking at herself. She's looking at her boyfriends ex, that girl in your spanish class. That past bright star, with a future fast fading. The family fuck up.

She makes no judgement tonight. She can't, all she can see is the familiar top two ribs, beneath her perfectly tiny breasts, the smooth curve of her hips. The scars scattered over bare flesh. She leans up close to the mirror, inspecting her face with a certain scrutiny as she tries to keep acne at bay.

Because if she has clear skin, she can make fun of those who don't.

After this, she steps into the shower and pauses, allowing the hot water to cascade over her. Indifferently and slowly, she washes her hair. Mostly because she can only wash away grease and dirt and dust. She can't wash away the dispair or the brokeness or the obsessions and addictions.

She can't wash away the baby that may or may not be forming inside her. Poisoned with alcohol and nicotine.

Then she's washing her face and she smiles to herself. she thinks, I must remember to thank him later, for giving me my greates protection. The essential tool in my salvation.

What so many people lack. What makes her invinvible. He can never hurt her again.

She has already been hurt, this girl. That's why she would survive from now on.

She could thank him for this new thick scar tissue she'd grown because of him, on her soul, in her head, and in her heart. That those fires had left in their wake. She could thank him for starting those fires. For lighting the fuses. For the insults he poured from his mouth, burning her like acid. Leaving her charred and ugly. But tough...so tough and resilient.

Thank you, she would say. And then she would kiss him, the taste of whiskey and cigarettes on her lips and breath.

Thank you for making me who i have become, this beautiful alcoholic would say to him. The lover that she now resented.

Thank you for making me a monster. For giving me my greatest protection. For arming me with my strongest weapon. And for making me bitter enough to use them both.

She'd learned so much from him in those long, painful months, that drug addict with the dysfunctional family. he had disaster written all over him. Destined to fail. Doomed to make the same mistakes as his father.

But he would never be a total failure, because he had the same wapon he'd given to her, in return for her obsession and virginity. His brilliant mind for suffering. He know what words to say to make someone hurt. What words to say to send them into rage of hysterics. And what words to say to being them crying back for more.

How to concoct that acid, to light thoses fuses, to start those fires.

The things this girl heard or read these days, they traveled through that tunnel of wounds since healed. What used to absorb feelings to make a reaction, now a useless path to her mind. She doesn't feel...she's protected from that.

But she still thinks. Unprocessed thoughts bounce around in her head, causing no reaction. They run across some teleprompter in her mind. She reacts as needed prompted by those invisible cue cards. Separate events that should make her happy. Or sad.

That should make her something.

She realizes, as she runs the razor blade up her toned calf, that no one has this protection. Probably, she is the only one with this gift.

These days, the negative things she thinks of, the hatred that's boiling behind her mask of flippant strength...she realizes that those are the same matches that he used. The same acid that burned her.

She has the strength to use them. The desire. the world has done nothing but hurt her. She is in the mood for revenge. She would plan carefully before making her assult. Craft her attacks slowly. Plant her bombs at exactly the right moment, with the assasin's precision and the artist's skill.

Thank you, she would say, for making me a terrorist of the mind.

Then they would make love, letting go of their two realities the pain they shared that linked them together. They pain they shared that linked them together. The pain they'd caused each other.

It was then, in his moment of sexual vulnerability, that she would make her final strike, beginning her retaliation.

Thank you, she would say, looking at him with cold and calculating eyes, for making me strong enough to beat you. For making me better than you.

It would be then that a sick, demented peace would cross her features. Her ultimate victory, her ultimate pleasure. Watching him writhe and burn. Watching him suffer.

This girl, she feels hollow inside as she turns off the water. Silence fills the room. She is cold, and goosebumps erupt on her perfect skin. Making it ugly and rough.

Just as her hatred erupted in her character. Making her ugly. Making her rough.

Being ugly, just like everyone else. She was not special, or protected like she thought. There must be others with this brilliant gift, with her terrorism of the mind. She would be destroyed, like she planned to destroy him.

She begins to panic. No one is home to help her.

This girl, your classmate, your girlfriend, your daughter, your best friend, she goes into her parents room. Reaches underneath the bed on her father's side.

She smiles into the revolver's gaping mouth.

It is a shame, she says, he is not here to thank for this.

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