Page 77 of Beautiful Scar

He hesitates, and I can tell he doesn’t like it. Tigran’s used to being the one in charge. He wants to be the big, strong, manly man who swoops into action and saves the weak little damsel.

And that was me. Even just a few days ago, I doubt I’d talk to him like this.

But I’m changing. I feel myself coming out of my deep, dark slumber, like I’m waking up and cracking through a shell.

Like I’m becoming my old self again.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he says, lifting his coffee to his perfect lips. “I want to know something about you, and if you tell me about it, I’ll stay on the couch until lunch.”

“All day,” I counter, eyes narrowed.

“Until dinner,” he says, shaking his head. “I can’t stay in one place for longer than that.”

I sigh, realizing that this is probably the best I’ll get, and relent. “What do you want to know?”

He runs a finger up my calf. “How did you get the scar?”

I go very still. He’s stroking my leg casually like he didn’t just drop a total bomb on my head. I reach up and touch the ugly knot of tissue, looking away from him as I shiver and close my eyes. “I don’t like talking about it.”

“I know you don’t. That’s why I haven’t asked until now. But I think this is a safe time.” His tone softens a touch. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But I do want to know.”

“It’s a bad story.” Even just thinking about it would’ve sent me running back to my bedroom to hide under the covers. But with Tigran’s hand on my legs and a warm coffee in my hands, maybe he’s right. Maybe this is a safe time. “Do you really want to know?”

“I want to know everything about you, baby.”

“It’s ugly.” I pull my fingers away. “The story. And the scar.”

“I think the scar is beautiful. It’s a part of you.”

I take a deep breath and force myself to talk. “I was thirteen when it happened. Back then, I’d come home from school and let myself into the house. Dad was out working, and my mom ran off a couple of years after my younger brother was born. I got used to it, though.”

“You were a latchkey kid,” Tigran says, nodding to himself. “That’s what they call it, right?”

“Yeah, exactly. That day, Evan was staying after school for soccer practice, so I was alone. Nothing seemed different, you know? I unpacked my bag, turned on the TV, made myself a snack?—”

“What were you eating?”

“Popcorn,” I say automatically, my stomach twisting. “Can’t stand the sight of it now.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“He broke in while I was on the couch. I thought it was Dad coming home drunk or something. He did that once in a while. There was this loud slam, and I turned around to tell him to cut it out, but it wasn’t my father. It was someone else.”

Tigran’s stroking slows. I’m staring at the wisps of steam rising off the surface of my coffee, and I’m back in that living room again, thirteen years old, confused, surprised, and terrified, not sure what to do. Nobody teaches you how to react when a stranger shows up in your house—in the one place that’s supposed to be safe.

“He took me then,” I tell Tigran, talking automatically. He says nothing, only listens, rapt with attention. “I tried to get away, but he grabbed me by the hair and hit me in the face. His hand smelled like smoke as he dragged me out the back and shoved me into the trunk of his car. I barely fit because he had golf clubs in there. I don’t know how long the drive lasted, but eventually, we ended up at this rundown house out in the suburbs, the kind of place that looked abandoned. He carried me inside, and I kicked and screamed for help, but there was nobody around. He took me down into his basement, where he had this big kennel set up already with a blanket and a pillow inside, the sort of cage you’d put a really huge dog in. He shoved me in and locked it, then stood back and smiled. I’ll never forget that smile. Big white teeth. Lots of red hair. Younger than you think. You know what he said to me?”

“No, baby, I don’t,” Tigran whispers.

“He said, ‘Sorry, kid, but I owe your dad money. We’ll come to an agreement soon, and you’ll be back home, don’t you worry.’ Then he left me there for a really long time.”

I stop talking. Dad says the man had me for three days, but it felt like years. Every second crawled past. The basement was cold and smelled like mold. I was alone most of the time, curled up under the blanket. I screamed and screamed until my throat went hoarse, and nobody came to help.

“The scar,” Tigran says. His voice trembles with restrained emotion. “What happened?”

“He came downstairs one night a little drunk. He had a phone and a knife. His hands were shaking, and he kept apologizing, but he didn’t stop, even when I begged. He grabbed my hair and sliced down my face as I cried and tried to fight him off. Then he took a picture.” My voice breaks, and I have to stop. I don’t know why, but it wasn’t even the agony of the sliced face that really gets me now.

It’s the humiliation. The photograph. The way he so callously took it and sent it along to my father.

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