Page 27 of Sinful Scars

Because of that guilt, I live and breathe Elle Conti. Day and night, wherever she goes, I go.

I watch her as she buries herself beneath her covers at night and sleeps. I watch her as she travels on the subway to work, enjoying her favorite mocha latte as she listens to a podcast. Even when she met up with a friend for coffee one day before work, I was there.

I’m in desperate need of sleep and a proper meal, but every time I think of leaving Elle alone, I’m terrified someone is going to take her away from me.

I fight through the tiredness because I can’t bear the thought of causing her any more pain.

Because sheisin pain.

She might not look like it on the outside, with her bright smile and carefree attitude, but I know her. Perhaps better than she knows herself.

I notice the way the shadow passes over her face when she thinks no one is watching. The way she places her hand on her chest, gently tapping her fingers to try and distract herself from the anxiety that is no doubt bubbling up inside her.

It kills me to know that I can’t ever be the one to comfort her when she needs it the most. Especially at night, when the nightmares jolt her awake, leaving her shaking and gasping for breath.

I have no doubt that she is reliving the night in the motel, just like I am whenever sleep manages to pull me under. The sound of her desperate cries in the dark has me almost breaking my rule of staying hidden, because I hate knowing she’s suffering alone.

I know all too well whatthat’s like.

I wish she could know how sorry I am, how much I wish it had never happened. My father always told me that I was a useless waste of space and as I listen to Elle’s cries, I know he’s right.

I should have done better, and I will spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to her.

Last night, I was so convinced that a man had been following Elle that I couldn’t stand to wait across the street from the hospital until she finished her shift.

My feet moved of their own accord, and I found myself sitting for hours in the ER, pretending to be with a patient, just so I could keep an eye on her.

Watching Elle work was mesmerizing. I was in awe of how calm she was when dealing with her patients, how she managed to reassure them, despite being in such a hectic environment. It made me wonder how much of her soft and caring persona is a result of the trauma she suffered as a child.

Trauma that I relive every single day.

When sleep eventually pulls me under, I often dream that Elle never made it out of the fire. I’m always frozen in place, forced to watch as Elle becomes consumed by the flames. I watch her beautiful mahogany hair burn, and her flawless skin melt off her bon?—

“Can I get you anything else?”

I blink to find a waitress standing over me, blocking Elle from view.

“Move.” I wave my hand at her as I try to peer around to make sure Elle is still in her spot by the window.

“You don’t have to be so rude, you know?” The waitress huffs, turns on her heels, and walks away.

A few customers nearby glance in my direction, and Ireadjust my hat, pulling the brim lower over my eyes to hide my face.

Thankfully, Elle is too lost in her book to have noticed, and I breathe a sigh of relief that I didn’t give myself away.

Today is one of Elle’s rare days off.

I followed her into a coffee shop, taking a seat a few tables behind her. Close enough to intervene should something happen, but not too close that she grows suspicious of my presence. Not that she ever notices me.

I wonder if she can sense I’m nearby. After all, I let it slip that I had been following her for years. Though, I didn’t get the impression that she was frightened by my confession. If anything, she seemed comforted by it.

It’s good to see Elle relax a little. She works incredibly hard and very rarely takes time for herself, always giving her time and energy to others’ needs before her own. Despite the stack of books beside her bed and the various overflowing bookshelves in her apartment, I hardly catch her reading, though it’s clear she loves it.

I take comfort in the knowledge that we have that in common. When I was younger, I would often steal books from my father’s personal collection and spend the hours when I was meant to be sleeping lost in fictional worlds filled with happy families.

Many of the books I stole were in Russian and while I could speak the language fluently, I was never taught how to read it.

I was never taught how to read, period.

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