Page 21 of Ugly: The Stepsister's Story

My eyes watered, smoke choked at my lungs, and I screamed as I had never screamed before in my life. And yet the torch remained on my skin, burning everything it could reach.

My hair caught on fire. I felt a heavy blow break my left arm as someone smashed a club into it. I thrashed about wildly, eyes rolling madly, screaming endlessly, trying to relieve any of the all-consuming pain.

Suddenly, the torch dropped, and the men were scattering as new shouts joined the rest. The guards had caught up at last! I smelled the acrid scent of my burning hair as my eyes began to roll and eyelids flutter. Darkness was taking over my body in wave after wave of pain.

Just as I thought I would pass out from the agony, I saw a group of Islandrian guards running in my direction. Curtis sprinted at the front, leading everyone toward me. He was bleeding from his own wounds, but he ignored his injuries and rushed to my side. I vaguely remember him smothering the flames and cutting me from the tree before I slipped into a blissful blackness, oblivious to all else.

CHAPTER 15

The next time I fully awoke, I was back at the Islandrian castle. Between the attack and that time, I only had brief, confused memories. A dark Avivian woman strapping my arm painfully into a splint. Aria sobbing uncontrollably and Curtis patting her on the back. Having my face covered in a thick, foul-smelling paste, and being spoon fed broth.

When I was conscious, my pain returned in full measure. My whole head was throbbing and what was left of my skin felt tight, hot, itchy, and raw. Unable to move my left arm, I slowly raised my right hand to touch my face. All of the left side of my face was covered in a poultice, and most of my hair was burned away.

Tears sprang to my eyes, and I let out a shuddering gasp. “Truly? Sweetheart, are you awake?” Mother rose from an armchair in the corner of my room. She looked dreadful, with dark circles under her eyes and hair snarled, as though she hadn’t brushed it in weeks.

I couldn’t talk. I began to cry but stopped quickly; it hurt too much. Mother sat on the edge of my bed and rubbed my right arm. “I am glad you are safe.” Mother said. She tried to smile, but it looked too difficult.

There was a gentle knock at the door, and Comfort came in from the next room. “Truly!” she cried, and ran toward me. I cringed, anticipating the pain that would surely come when she touched me. She seemed to understand and stopped herself. She patted my leg instead. “We were so worried about you.”

I nodded, but still was unable to speak. Images of the attack swam before my eyes, and I scrunched them shut, trying desperately to block out the screams still echoing inside my head. As much as I wanted to avoid crying, tears slowly seeped out of from between my eyelids. Mother kept patting my arm, and Comfort started saying meaningless phrases like, “It will all be okay,” and “At least you are safe.”

I don’t know how long we sat there like that, but after awhile, the plump court physician bustled in. He painfully scraped the paste off my face to examine my burns underneath, though I could tell he was attempting to be gentle, making “hmmm,” noises while he did so. He washed my face then applied more paste, and went about examining my arm. After that, he began tending the other scrapes and bruises I had sustained from being thrown from the horse. I must look terrible.

“Well, you are very lucky to be alive,” the physician said. “Everything should heal fine, and there won’t be any lasting damage. You will have some scarring, but not too much.”

I turned away from him. I didn’t want to hear anything he had to say. Mother rose and walked him out. I heard their voices from behind the door but I didn’t care what they were saying. Let them talk about me.

Comfort stayed by my side, rubbing my leg, which was one of the few parts of me that wasn’t throbbing in pain. I looked around for Father. Surely, he would want to see me, and I hadn’t seen him since he took off toward the front of the column during the attack.

“Co—" my voice came out croaky and hoarse. I tried again, “Comfort.”

She snapped to attention. “Yes? What is it?”

“Father?” I asked weakly.

Comfort bit her lip, and her eyes began to water. She looked away from me and shook her head. “His funeral was yesterday,” she whispered.

CHAPTER 16

Finally, after weeks of care and smelly pastes and creams, I had healed. I had full use of my left arm again, and all my bruises from being thrown from Storm were gone. There were still scars that ran ragged and red all over the left side of my face, and the court physician assured me it would fade over time, but I didn’t believe him. I knew his words were shallow, full of false hope for the fools who believed such lies.

I knew what I looked like; I was hideous. Mother and Comfort would give me their painful smiles and tell me they could barely even see the difference, but if it bothered me, they would buy me a whole stock of cosmetics, and that looks didn’t matter anyway. It is easy for someone pretty to say that.

I shunned mirrors. I never looked at myself. I couldn’t. The image made my stomach churn sickeningly. Anytime I would accidentally glimpse my reflection, I would have painful, vivid flashbacks to that horrible day in the woods. To the man with the scarred face shouting, “Who wants to have some fun boys?” as the mob closed in around me. I felt the overwhelming, frantic panic take over my body. I re-lived the all-consuming pain that the burns had inflicted on me.

When I had worked up the courage to ask about Storm, I was told that she had disappeared, either killed or stolen.

I could still recall with perfection the sensation of my hands loosing arrows into the oncoming hoard of men. I could still see the faces of the men I hit with those arrows. I wondered if I was the cause of some families now being fatherless, as mine now was. Anytime I thought about Father, I heard the pain in Comfort’s voice as she whispered, “His funeral was yesterday.”

I never even saw Father or got to say goodbye.

Father. The one who always knew how to cheer me up. The one who always looked out for us. The one who loved us fiercely and was protective of his daughters. If he had lived, surely he would have saved me. I couldn’t imagine life without Father. I wanted him there to tell stories that would turn gloomy evenings into adventures, to feel the security of knowing he was always there to give me guidance and reassurance.

But now, frequent panic attacks would leave me huddled in the corner, rocking back and forth on my heels, tears pouring from my eyes—one normal and the other scarred with pinched, taught skin. My breath would come in short, panicked bursts that deprived my brain of oxygen and left me even more inconsolable than at first.

I was ugly. I knew it.

I knew I must be revolting to look at, whatever Mother and Comfort pretended. I refused all visitors.

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