Sing Me Your Scars (Apex Voices Book 3) (20 page)

A wooden box I vaguely remember seeing when I was a child sits on
her bedside table. When I open it, I smell a hint of roses and wave my hand in
front of my face to disperse the scent. A diary, like something a teenage girl
would keep, is inside the box. Funny, I never knew my mother kept a diary. I
sit down on the edge of her bed and begin to read.

§

When Rebecca left, I tidied up. Made sure the laundry was
folded and put away. Made sure the necessary papers in my desk were organized
so they’ll be easy for her to find. I can feel the memories starting to fade
again. No matter how tight I hold on, they slip away.

I know I shouldn’t complain. I’ve had a good life. I married a
kind, loving man. I had a loving daughter. I regret I won’t see my
granddaughter grow to adulthood, but I’m grateful for the time I’ve had. Maybe
I was greedy.

I hope I’m not too much of a burden. It hurts to forget, but
sometimes it hurts even more to remember.

§

I put the diary down after I’ve read a few of the entries
and scrub my face with my hands. I can’t bear to read any more. Judging by the
smell that clings to the wood, the box is where she kept all the petals she’d
plucked over the years, but did she really think they were magicked
into…something? It explains why she tried to tear apart the roses in the
hospital.

How could I have been so blind? How could I have not seen the
signs? It’s obvious she knew something was wrong, and she was right about the
doctor. I would have insisted she go. No, I would have
demanded
. If I
had, maybe they could have slowed things down somehow. Maybe they could have
done something. Why did she hide it from me? Did she think I’d love her any
less? Then I think of the vacant eyes. The limp hand.

I cry until my throat aches. How I wish life was a children’s
story with magic and a happy ending instead of a memoir of illness and funeral
plans.

With tears still in my eyes, I carry the box out to the pile of
things to be donated. Maybe the disease made her think it was magic, but all it
is now is a reminder of my failure. I tuck the diary in my purse. Maybe one day
I’ll read the rest, but I don’t think so. I don’t want to remember a woman
rambling about nonsense. I’d rather remember her the way she was.

§

Rebecca
,

I know I don’t have long now. My fingertips are cold, and I
can feel the pieces of me straining to break free. I hope you’ve found this
diary. I hope you’ve read the words. I know it might seem crazy, but trust me. The
box works. No matter what you choose to put in it, it will keep the memories
tight until you take them out. I’m sorry I didn’t save a petal for you to prove
it, but please, you have to believe me.

Memories are the real magic, perhaps the only pure magic left
in the world. Hold them tight as long as you can.

Please be kind to the old
woman I will become. I have to believe that somewhere deep inside she remembers
that you are her daughter and that she loves you.

Love,

Mom

A dozen crosses—all wood, all occupied. Nails through
wrists and feet. Low moans and whispers. Prayers. The smell of old coins cupped
in a palm. The vinegar bite of perspiration. The salt tang of an ocean of
tears.

The walls of the room are deep red; the floor black, sloping
to a central drain. A woman steps around the crosses, checking wounds and
temperatures and IVs.

Death is not the intention. Dying isn’t the point.

Know this: no one will
judge you here. No one will judge your need to be here.

§

You don’t know if you’re supposed to explain why you’re
here, but you feel the words pushing against your lips, straining to break
free. If voiced, will they help? Hurt? Do they even matter?

The woman holding a gown in her hand shakes her head, and the
words slip back down your throat. You wonder how she knew. You wonder what she
sees in your eyes. You wonder why you’re even here, how it all happened. You
never thought you were the kind of person to end up in a place like this.

(Maybe that’s a lie; maybe a place like this is exactly where you
knew you’d end up.)

Your hands tremble when you take the gown, the fabric soft
against your skin. It feels wrong; it should be coarse, a hair shirt worn for
penance, not thin gauze shaped like a chiton on a Greek statue. This gown is
meant for poetry, for beauty, not blood and nails. Something inside you twists.
It’s not too late.

(It was too late the moment you walked through the door.)

After you’ve changed, the woman nods toward a door. You swallow hard.
Force your feet to move. The door makes barely a sound when it shuts behind
you.

It’s not what you expected.

(It’s exactly what you expected.)

The crosses have been
arranged in a circle. Only one of the twelve is empty. Waiting for you, waiting
like a lover with rage for eyes and razors for teeth. You try not to look too
closely at the others, but you can’t help it. The nails, the blood, the sorrow.
A dark perfume; an invocation in the air; a breathless song of suffering.

You want some sort of validation, some acknowledgment, but no one
is paying you any attention, not even the man standing next to the empty cross.

(You can’t bring yourself to call it yours yet.)

As you close the distance, your mouth turns dry, and your heart
flutters bird wings beneath the cage of your ribs. You don’t want to be here.

(You need to be here.)

The man’s hands are strong but gentle as he lifts you up,
arranges your feet on the tiny platform, and slips the IV needle into your vein
with little effort, the bag hanging hidden behind the cross. There are no
narcotics in the bag, only fluids to insure you won’t go into shock.

When he lifts the hammer, his
gaze finally meet yours. You have the choice to say no, to walk away. When you
nod, his eyes hold no surprise, only a weary sort of sadness. Then he presses
the first nail against your skin, brings the hammer down. You close your eyes
when you hear metal strike metal, hear a thin scream that doesn’t sound human.
The pain is a shock that strips all thoughts from your mind. You didn’t know it
would be like this.

(You need it to be like this.)

You open your eyes, see blood flowing from the wound and clench
your jaw, sure the red doesn’t belong to you, sure this is some strange
mistake, but you won’t say stop. You close your eyes when you see the hammer
lift again. It takes longer than you thought it would; it happens faster than
you thought it would.

“Be well,” the man says before he leaves the room.

In spite of the pain, you
want to laugh. You can’t imagine being well. You can’t imagine anything but the
agony in your wrists and feet.

But after a time, you lift your head. Gaze at the red walls,
searching for a distraction or perhaps absolution. And then you see the
suggestion of faces; look longer and the suggestion becomes something more, a
tableau vivant.

A woman cringes in front of a man standing over her, his face
contorted with rage, his fists moving one-two-three, and she doubles over,
falls, and he kicks one-two-three as if it’s some strange game of sadistic
symmetry.

A man finds an empty liquor bottle on the counter and a woman
passed out on the floor while a toddler with a soiled diaper sits beside her,
crying, crying, crying.

A woman waits with a phone in her hand, pacing divots in a carpet
while elsewhere, a man laughs with his wife, sneaking sidelong glances at his
own phone when he thinks she isn’t looking.

And when you see your own face, you close your eyes, unable to
bear the sight or the shame. With your eyes closed, you can pretend it wasn’t
you. At least for a little while.

The ache pulses inside you, a feral child chewing you apart,
ripping off tiny bits and pieces and swallowing them whole. You bow your head
and weep silent tears that burn and burn and burn.

You don’t want this pain.

(You need this pain.)

You don’t want this pain.

(You crave this pain.)

You don’t want this pain.

(You deserve this pain.)

When the session is done, your wounds are cleansed and bandaged,
and you schedule your next appointment.

(Because of course you’ll come back.)

§

The next time, you dare yourself to keep your eyes open, to
watch the hammer, and for a moment, you think you’re in a movie. This can’t be
you. This can’t be your life. Then the nail slips in, piercing your skin,
leaving you open-mouthed and gasping for a reason, a justification. You’re the
animal expecting a gentle touch instead of a kick from a cruel owner, a fool
expecting things to change.

And you know you deserve all of it.

The hurt travels from wrists and feet, spreads all through your
body, until it’s the only thing you’re aware of. This is okay.

(This is not okay.)

The images dance on the wall,
blending one trauma into another, and tears come in a rush, hot and hard. You
bite your lip to stifle the sound, convinced you’ll never stop crying, never
stop hurting, never be anything more than what you are at this moment.

When it’s over, you take a dozen deep breaths, feeling your lungs
expand and release, expand and release. Something so simple shouldn’t be so
hard.

§

The cross holds a sort of comfort now. A broken and twisted comfort,
but comfort nonetheless. You can’t remember anything
but
the cross, the
rough wood against your back, the splinters in your skin. You’ve lost count how
many times you’ve been here; you look forward to the first nail, the bite that
says you’re here of your own volition.

The pain washes over you—a baptism, a benediction.

You weep openly, loudly, not
caring who hears. You know you’re here because of the broken pieces of you, but
there’s a sort of safety in this. To glue your pieces back together takes a
strength you know you don’t have. It’s easier to stay shattered. To suffer. To
bleed.

§

The nails slide into your skin, the blood wells, runs, yet
the pain is distant, indiscernible. You shift and splinters dig tiny hollows
into your skin, but you feel nothing. You move again, tug your hands against
the nails. Nothing.

It used to hurt. You know it did, but you can’t remember quite
how. You want to remember, to feel something, anything at all. Does this make
you an emotional masochist, needing anguish to feel real, to feel of worth?
Does this make you a ghost? Does this make you anything at all?

You try to make yourself cry, but tears will not come. You pray
to a God you’re not sure you believe in anymore, and you’re not even sure what
you’re praying for. A miracle of hail and healing? A scourge of grasshoppers
and plague?

You see the imagery on the walls, all the broken and the lost,
but all you feel inside is cold. So cold, so numb, so nothing.

§

He brings the hammer, the nails, and your fingers twitch.
Your eyes narrow. Haven’t you bled enough? Haven’t you paid enough? He presses
the point of the nail against your wrist, and you yank your arm away.

“No,” you say, your voice thick and rusty.

You don’t want to do this anymore.

(You don’t need to do this anymore.)

You tip your head back and shout to the ceiling, a long, wordless
shout as if your soul is raging against the world, raging against some machine
of circumstance, against all the poor choices you were too blind to see. But
now you see everything in stark detail—the black, the white, the grey. The
sharp edges, the quicksand centers, the pretty façades that hide their ugly far
too well.

When the echo of your voice fades, the man puts the hammer aside.
He smiles. Takes you down from the cross, presses a kiss against your forehead,
places the nail in your hand and curls your fingers around it. You can’t speak.
It can’t be that easy. All you said was no.

When the door shuts behind you, you take a deep breath. Tears
shed the sorrow from your eyes. Your hands are shaking, but you hold tight to
the nail. Something to hang the memories from or something upon which to impale
them?

Your scars haven’t healed, and they may never, not completely,
but you don’t have to be ashamed because they’ll serve as reminders that you
were stronger than you thought you were, that your spine may have bowed beneath
the weight, but it didn’t break. You’re not sure what comes next, but your feet
move forward, away, and you know everything will be okay eventually.

§

A dozen crosses—all wood, all empty. The IV bags hang
like abandoned chrysalises. Those who were able to move on have; those who were
not were carefully taken down, their wounds cleansed, their bodies wrapped in
white, their names remembered or not.

There is always a cross here for you. Pray you never need it.
Pray you never understand.

She walks down the street, high heels clicking on pavement.
Long hair the color of fresh honey, a pink flower tucked behind one ear, and
tanned legs peeking out from under a diaphanous skirt. She smiles here and
there, and purchases coffee from a corner shop. People stop and stare. She pays
them no attention.

Her eyes hold a million secrets and give up none. She could be a
model or the girl next door. A princess or a harpy. Like hourglass sand, she
slips by, her legs moving in wide strides.

“Beautiful,” an old man
whispers. “Like a girl from the forties.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” a construction worker calls out, sweat turning
his shirt to dark circles.