Publishing House Me

Scarred (Archived)

You are here: Home > Writers' House > Stories > Scarred

Scarred

Chinatsu may blend into society well enough on the outside, but when she's left alone with nothing but her thoughts, her true nature and past catch up with her. . Submitted by Rachel (Award 650), age 22

Akatsu had been right: this place wasn’t much at all.

But he’d been right again – it was better than nothing.

I dumped my bag down as soon as I closed the door behind me and looked around dismally. This place gave grey a whole new meaning. It looked like it was abandoned. There was no furniture, not even a light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Just patchy, scabby floorboards beneath my feet, dull ceiling above my head and dismal patches of old, dirtied wallpaper clung to the walls around me.

I sighed.

What had I expected? A five star hotel?

I was a fugitive. I was just lucky this place had a lock on the door.

Remembering that fact, I quickly turned and made use of it. If I was found here it wouldn’t end well, but if I was found and found to be scarred… it really wouldn’t end well.

I unpacked the only possessions that I valued: newspaper clippings. From my bag I pulled out a large notebook, overflowing with cut outs and articles that I had saved over the years. Some were more interesting than others, some were personal, but all had one thing in common that they were about people who were scarred. Tipping open the first page, the most important story of them all gleamed up at me: TWO NOTORIOUS FUGITIVES DEAD. CHILD STILL MISSING.

The ‘two notorious figures’ were my parents. The child: me. I was missing. I had been for nearly sixteen years. I’d survived the assault where my parents had been arrested.

My eyes flickered away dully.

I didn’t remember anything. I didn’t know anything. I’d been a baby, little over a year old, any memories I had of back then hidden too deep in my mind for me to recover. For now that was fine. For now, I was controlled by my fear of what I might see.

I sank down, sitting on my calves as I lay the book down gently, casting my bag away with quite the opposite affection.

My powers came from those of my parents. I knew what I could do, even though it had been years since I’d exercised it, but what my parents abilities had been… nadda. No clue. I couldn’t research it without arousing suspicion. Akatsu wouldn’t tell me. And I couldn’t remember. It was one thing I longed to know about my mother and father, yet something that seemed to be lost in time.

I lay down on the hard floor, my hands folded delicately as a makeshift pillow under my head. My eyes lingered on the wanted photographs of my parents in the newspaper article. This was the only thing I had to show me what my parents had ever looked like, but the more I looked, the more they just seemed like strangers to me.

Both were dull and unsmiling in the pictures, wearing grey, scabby jumpsuits with their prison numbers printed on. Her father was lean looking, with a strong but dark stubbled face. His dark brown hair flopped down into his eyes, overgrown and needing a cut, his mouth drawn in a tight, thin line. Her mother’s dirty blond hair hung down to her thin shoulders, curtaining her pale, sickly looking face. Both sets of eyes were dull, though her father’s still held a spark of defiance. Her mother’s didn’t. Hers were vacant, as if they’d already succumbed to their inevitable defeat.

The picture was taken three days before they were executed.

My fist curled in that unexplainable way again. I didn’t understand why I got angry a lot of the time. It sprang upon me, without cause or reason, clenching over me so strong that there was nothing for me to do but comply to its will.

But it wasn’t anger for their deaths specifically. I hated the Government, sure, and while I knew that they’d killed my parents, two innocent people who were just a smidge more talented than everyone else, I couldn’t get angry about their execution. I wanted to. Really. But all the time, I kept thinking: I’m angry for these people – my parents – people I never knew. The anger wasn’t for revenge for my parents really.

The Government had condemned me to a life alone. They’d robbed me of my parents – not the dreary figures in the photograph – the ones who loved you, kept you safe, taught you how to live life, wiped your tears when you cried, shared the joy that you honed, walked you down the aisle at your wedding, cried on your first day of school or the first time you rode a bike… I’d never had any of that. And thanks to the Government, I never would.

They’d robbed my childhood.

That was what I was angry for.

For another night, I went asleep with my last conscious thoughts swearing my vengeance on the Government, the modern Nazi’s who wrecked my life before it had even begun. I didn’t dream, but I woke the next morning convinced that it was because dreams no longer needed to show me my destiny. I knew it already.

I was going to tear down this evil Government, even if it was with my bare clawing hands.

Comments (1)

user comment Matilda says: awesome!! this is fantastic!!
Sent on Thu 13th Oct 11


Submit a comment

We are no longer accepting comments.

 

News