Page 5 of Scarred By Love

Graham let out a frustrated sigh. It was obvious I was annoying him but what else was there for us to do besides talk and get to know one another?

"My ex-wife is a bitch. I wasn't giving her enough attention one night, so she thought she’d make me jealous by flirting with another man. It led to a bar fight and then divorce. End of story."

I mean, not really, but it would appear that was all he was going to say on the matter. This was going to be a longconfinement if I had to pull every conversation out of him. So color me surprised when he was the one to ask a question.

"How did you get your scar?"

I guess it was fair for him to ask after I probed into his life, but my scar was the one thing I never talked about. I did everything I could to cover it up.

"I got it when I was a kid in one of my many foster homes."

"You were a foster kid."

It wasn't a question but I still answered with “mhmm” anyway.

We fell into an uncomfortable silence. I was desperate to talk just to keep myself sane but at the same time didn't want to cough up any more information about me. It wasn't fair to ask questions when I didn't want to reciprocate, so I kept quiet, despite how hard it was.

I don't know how much time passed before Graham spoke again. "You don't like talking about your childhood."

"Just like you don't like to talk at all," was the best answer I could give.

"Fair enough, but I can sit here in silence for days. Can you say the same?"

"No, I can't, but I figured you preferred silence. Why do you want to talk now?"

"I don't," he answered honestly. "But I can tell by your breathing that you’re beginning to freak out again.”

Damn the darkness heightening someone’s senses. I always thought that was just a myth, but I too could hear every breath Graham took despite him sitting across from me. The hole we were in wasn't large by any means, but it wasn't so small either that Graham and I were touching. Even with my legs spread out, no parts of our bodies were that close.

"Fine, I'm freaking out, but any sane person would be."

"I never claimed to be sane," was Graham's only response.

It was several minutes of silence before I caved. "Fine, you're right, I can't keep quiet. I don't like talking about my childhood because not everyone is lucky enough to get a good foster home. I bounced around in them until I aged out, then I was on my own."

"And the home that you got that scar in?"

I took a deep breath before answering. "One of the bad ones. It's mostly my fault. I started a fight with my foster father because I knew it was the only way to get kicked out. I just didn't expect him to smash a lamp across my face."

"Wait, a grown man gave you that scar?" The hostility was clear as day as if I could see it pouring off him. That was, if I could see at all.

"Yeah. His son tried coming into my bed one night, so I hit him with a lamp. Unfortunately, it didn't break but his father came in and felt I deserved the same treatment for hitting his precious son. I wasn't as lucky. It smashed and cut me good, but the next day I was out of that house and moved into a group home for some time."

"How old were you?"

"Fifteen. I spent four months in that group home before another family would take a chance on me. I was lucky enough to find a good one too after that, but six months later she was diagnosed with cancer, so it was off to another foster home."

I often thought about how things would've been different if my foster mother never got diagnosed with cancer. How different my life would've been if I would've stayed with her until graduation instead of running away on my eighteenth birthday, foregoing graduation and earning my GED.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"That happened to you."

I shrugged my shoulders even though he couldn't see them. "I survived and it made me the person I am today."

"And what kind of person would that be?"

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