Scar Tissue
by Sami

Molly had been staring at the sinister looking file for five minutes. She had memorized every sharp ridge, every edge, and every sparkling point. Finally, she picked it up. Moving it around in her hands, she tested the ridges with the tip of a finger. Standing up, she locked the door, shut the blinds, and closed the curtains. Walking over to her stereo, she put a CD on.

She walked home, not straying from the glow of the streetlamps. She though she was safe; home was only a block away. A handsome stranger stood in her way. Then the world went dark.

She sat back on the bed Indian style, file still in hand. The music was loud enough to block any other sound out. She put the file down and leaned to look under the bed. Pulling out a bottle of pills and a bottle of Turkey Foot‹the perfect pair, she thought, as she gently put them on the bed. Gritting her teeth, she picked up the file.

She woke up in a black and white room, chained to a bed with the handsome stranger looking down. "You¹re finally awake." She struggled with the bindings and thrashed violently. The bonds held.

She touched the file to her skin and flinched at its cold hardness. It reminded her of him. Putting the file down fast, she picked up the bottle of Turkey Foot and unscrewed the cap. Molly made a face at the bitter taste of the whiskey after a hit. Screwing the top on tight, she gathered her courage again. Picking up the file again, she closed her eyes

She has always had pale skin. Her ancestors were Irish, you know. Pale skin and blood contrast beautifully, he told her.

She put the file on his mark. The scar, the brand, what makes her, his; like she is an object, property, cattle. His, just like he told her, only his. Not her, just an extension of him. She used to like the name Nikolas till it was carved in to her arm. She started to rub; it hurt like a bitch, but at the same time felt good some how. She rubbed harder; back and forth, back and forth. The pain was gone, and there was a sense of euphoria. Her blood flowed down her arm, with bits of her skin along for the ride. She kept rubbing, but stopped once she saw the mess left on her blankets. Getting off the bed and walking over to her mirror, she looked at her upper arm‹a mess of leaky liquid red. Blood. Skin. Her, just her. No more letters of raised scar tissue, just her. She smiled at her refection.


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