Page 71 of Shattered
I could change that for her before I left. Give her the money, or persuade the owner to change her mind about Melissa’s total. To convince her to grant Melissa’s freedom. I lifted the painting. “Can I keep this?”
“Of course.”
An idea popped into my mind. I motioned for her to sit up, and once she did, I took out my pocket knife. I had purposely brought one of the sharper ones that I had, trusting my impulse. She didn’t flinch when she saw the knife; she stayed still, waiting for an explanation. Trusting me.
“Have you ever heard of scarification?” I asked. She shook her head. “It’s the intentional cutting of the skin to make art through a scar.”
“How fascinating,” she whispered.
“Yes.” I picked up the knife. “Let me cut you.”
She stared at me for a moment, her eyes searching the mask. Then she asked, “Can I cut you too?”
“Yes.”
She showed me her other arm, opposite of her tattoo. “Do you have rubbing alcohol?” I asked. She went to the bathroom down the hallway and returned with a small bottle, cotton pads, and washcloths. I wiped her skin with the cool liquid, then unfolded the knife, clicking it into place.
“This will hurt,” I warned. She gave a slight nod. The knife on her flesh instantly cut, but Melissa didn’t move. Not even as I turned the knife, marking a delicate circle in her skin. She kept her chin forward, defiant against the pain I was causing her. Taking all of it in.
“Done,” I said.
She looked down at it. A thin line of blood dripped from it. “A circle.”
“You were so intrigued by that ouroboros tattoo, claiming it reminded you of me. I can’t cut a snake, but I can cut a circle. And it works as a stronger symbol.”
“I like it,” she said. “I’m surprised that it’s not that deep. Just more than a papercut.”
“You don’t need to go deep to scar the skin.”
She smiled then, and if I hadn’t had the mask on, I would have kissed her. Long and hard, reaching my tongue deep into her mouth. Instead, I grabbed the washcloth and held it to her arm. She sucked in a breath with that contact, but her grin never strayed.
Once the bleeding slowed, I handed her the knife, and she wiped it down with an alcohol-soaked pad, as if I cared about her blood mixing with mine.
“Where?” she asked. I took off one of my gloves and showed her my hand.
“You use your hands all of the time,” she said.
“So?”
“So… Won’t it make it more difficult to,” she hesitated, but only for a moment, “to kill people?”
I wish she could have seen the smirk on my face. I shook my head. “I don’t feel anything in those moments anyway.”
Satisfied with her canvas, not noticing any of the other healing marks I had there, she prepared me too, then cut a small ‘M’ into my palm. “So that you’ll know I’m always with you.”
“Each time I kill. Anything I do.”
“I’m with you.” With gentle movements, she doused the wound with alcohol, then held a washcloth to it.
It was one thing to leave an emotional scar on a person’s life, another to physically leave that mark, to embody it. It made the night seem more final, once again, reminding me that I needed to leave. And I knew that we were taking this too far. That was why I wanted to mark her. So that she would never forget me.
I had never cared about being forgotten before.
“Whenever a scab forms, rip it off. Imagine it’s me doing it,” I said. “Never let it heal.”
“Why?”
“The longer it takes to heal, the longer the scar will last. It’ll become big and ugly, like me. So you’ll always remember me.”
