Sing Me Your Scars (Apex Voices Book 3) (5 page)

§

Come off.

Meg blinked awake to the stink of bleach. She was sitting on her
bathroom floor surrounded with soggy, rust-colored cotton balls, her left arm
awash in pain.

“What the…”

She scrambled to her feet. The skin on her arm was bright red,
covered with oozing blisters and raw spots flecked with blood. A container of
bleach sat open by her feet. This was wrong. She’d been sitting on her sofa,
watching television.

No, you can’t. I have to—

“You little bitch. How dare you. How did you…”

With her mouth compressed into a thin line, she dumped everything
in the trash can and pulled out antibiotic ointment and gauze bandages.

Can’t you see what it’s doing to you? To me?

“You leave me the hell alone,” Meg said.

No, you have to listen. You have to stop this. I know you can.
You just have to try. I won’t let you do this to me. I won’t.

Meg laughed in reply, her fingers curling toward her palms. She’d
have to find a way to get rid of the stupid, weak voice once and for all.

§

Meg stood with the morning crowd on the corner, waiting for
the light to change. An elderly woman with frail limbs and fluffy white hair
waited next to her, holding tight to a plastic bag. The bag hit Meg in the leg
once, twice, three times.

Meg tried to shift away, but the crowd was pressed too close
together. The bag hit her again; she bumped into the man on her other side, a
man in a cheap suit and a gaudy tie. He gave her a quick look. She gave a frown
in return. It was his fault for standing so close. She cast glances over her
shoulders. Everyone was watching the street or the light, like cows waiting for
the okay to move. No, dumber than cows.

The bag swung against her leg; she bumped into the man. All
around, she felt people shifting, a chain reaction of movement and
readjustment. The light turned yellow, a collective sigh of relief went up, and
the bag hit her again.

“Dammit,” she muttered.

And shoved with her shoulder and hip.

No, you can’t do this. No!

In a flash, the old woman staggered forward with a shriek. Meg
smiled as the bag dropped from the woman’s hands and split open on the curb,
spilling a dozen dog-eared paperbacks into the street. The old woman’s arms
pinwheeled, but her upper body was pitched too far forward, and she fell to her
hands and knees with a breathy shout. Strands of pale green unfurled from the
books like ivy and darted across the asphalt to twine about the woman’s ankles.
Meg sneered. All the happiness in the world wouldn’t save the woman now.

Tires screeched—a car rushing
to beat the light. It sped around the woman, and the air filled with the stink
of rubber on asphalt.

What have you done?

Someone edged closer to Meg,
brushed up against her shoulder, and a second later, laughed. A soft laugh
mostly under the breath. And then another from elsewhere in the crowd. And
another.

“Stupid old bag,” someone hissed.

No, I will not let you do this. I will not.

The smell of char hung heavy in the air, thick and malevolent. The
laughter grew louder. All around her, strands of grey curled out, over, around,
the people.

Please, please help me.

The green uncurled from the woman’s ankles and moved toward Meg.
More ribbons slipped down from streetlamps and doors and danced in waves across
the street. All heading in the same direction.

Meg squirmed, but she couldn’t break free from the crowd.
Laughter rose overhead in dark bubbles glistening with a fiery shade of red. A
thin tendril of green made its way over the curb and touched the tip of Meg’s
foot.

Yes, please help me.

“Get away, get away from me,” she said, twisting her body this
way and that.

The man in the suit bumped
into Meg, hard enough to knock her sideways several inches. Her hands came up
instinctively, hands caked with grey, like overlapping scales, each one
glistening as if dipped in a slick of oil. All across her arms, more of the
same.

This is not who you are,
the voice said.

The ribbon of green wound its way up around her leg.

No, you will not do this.

Meg extended her arms, fingers splayed. Streamers of pink,
yellow, and lilac rushed along the pavement, darting between feet and legs, all
on a path to Meg. They spiraled around her calves, coiled about her waist, and
danced along her arms, nudging their way beneath the grey.

Cracks appeared in her arms with zigzags of healthy flesh peeking
out. The air filled with the smell of hibiscus and rose. The corners of her
mouth slid up into a smile as she tasted strength and purpose—

No, it was weakness. Useless, stupid weakness. They would not
win. She would not
let
them win.

In the street, the elderly woman rose to her feet. Tires
screeched again. Another car swerved, but the tires didn’t catch on the
asphalt. The car slid in an arc, the side heading straight for the woman, close
enough for Meg to see the driver’s mouth open in a giant O. The laughter of the
crowd grew louder.

The grey pressed back, tightening around Meg’s limbs. One green
tendril dropped to the pavement, the severed edge bleeding pale vapor onto the
pavement. Her laughter

No, not mine, not mine.

joined the rest.

The ribbons wrapped even
tighter around her limbs, propelling her forward, as if she were a marionette
and they the puppeteer. She struggled and pushed, but couldn’t stop, couldn’t
break free.

This
is who you really are.

They shoved her through the
crowd, out into the street, and let go. She fell against the old woman, pushing
her out of the way to safety. Someone laughed; in the distance, someone else
screamed.

Metal met flesh as the car struck.

Pain exploded inside Meg’s chest, her back, her legs. She felt the sensation of flying, then a thud as she landed on her back. Hurt came anew. Everywhere. Inside and out. She stared at the sky, a seeping warmth crept from beneath her body, and the taste of wet pennies filled her mouth.

She tried to move her legs,
but the signal would not pass between brain and limb. Tried to speak, but the
words would not come. Like a broken, discarded doll, she remained motionless
and still.

With a soft tug, the grey left her skin. A legion of rats
deserting their sinking ship. A dark shadow moved across the asphalt, and the
smell of char rose into the air. Sirens wailed far in the distance. Too late.
They were too late. Tears filled Meg’s eyes.

Green and yellow and pink took the grey’s place, wrapping around
her like streamers on a Maypole. She tasted the
sweetness of honeysuckle; the pain ebbed; the sirens faded to a mere suggestion
of sound.

This is who you are
, the voice whispered, soft and sweet.
This
is who you are.

The girl who can’t feel pain is on display in the art
gallery again.

Stitches bind her lips together, a cage to keep her voice
prisoner. The seams of her costume feel as if they’ll split under the strain of
holding herself in.

She stares into the crowd with her back straight. In her hand,
she clutches a straight razor, the blade glittering under the lights like a
dark promise of blood, a pulse slowing to nothing at all.

She doesn’t have a death
wish. She isn’t suicidal. Suicide isn’t art. It’s cheap theater, not even
off-Broadway quality. Anyone can do it.

And she isn’t into kink. Her show isn’t designed to get anyone
off. It’s about how much you can stand before you say enough, before you break.

Before you turn away.

Title: A Study in Crucifixion

Medium: Specially cast nails patterned after those
used in ancient Rome

Canvas: Wrists, feet

Olivia steps on the envelope as she’s heading out of her
apartment. If not for the crinkle of paper, she might not have even noticed.
It’s plain white with the sealed side facing up. When she sees her name
scrawled across the front in familiar handwriting with a distinctive O, the
breath rushes out of her and her fingers tremble.

She scans the hallway but she’s alone except for the smell of
burnt toast from the neighbors. Holding the letter as if it contains something
toxic, she carries it back inside, kicks the door shut behind her.

The last time she saw that O, it was scrawled across a paper
lunch bag. She was thirteen, her left leg encased in a cast up to her thigh,
her left arm a series of scrapes and bruises, her ribs taped. Damage on display
for everyone for see.

She contemplates throwing the envelope away unopened (she’s
meeting Trevor for coffee and doesn’t want to be late) but leans against the
door and slides her finger beneath the flap. No paper cut, no hint of red, but
the letter hurts anyway with its very presence. It hurts deep inside where the
bruises and scars don’t show. That’s the worst part. She should’ve put it
behind her, moved on.

The envelope holds a single piece of paper, folded in uneven
creases. She frowns. Was she not even worth the effort of making it neat? She
taps the letter against her palm. Unfolding it will mean ending twelve years of
silence. She exhales. Unfolds the paper.

I’m sure you don’t want to hear from me after all this time.

Olivia closes her eyes, thumps her head on the door. Her fingers
seek the scar just above her heart. Once upon a time, it was faint, but she’s
reopened it so many times (the way you open a favorite book—not for the purpose
of art), now the scar is thick and ridged, easy to find even beneath the fabric
of her shirt.

The rest of the letter is short:
I know it’s been a long time
but I’d love to talk to you. Maybe we could meet for coffee or you could just
call me. I hope you don’t hate me too much. There’s so much I want and need to
explain.

Thankfully, she didn’t sign it Mom, but with her first
name—Marie. There’s a phone number, a local number. What’s missing is an
apology. Surely Marie could’ve summoned up enough humility, even bullshit
humility, for that. Olivia traces the scar on her chest again, then crumples
the letter in a tight ball.

She remembers her mother sitting in the kitchen with the overhead
light turned off and the small room awash in shadows. Olivia watched, hidden
behind a half-open door, as her mother tossed a coin in the air. She let it sit
on her palm for a long time before she closed her fingers. When Olivia woke the
next morning, her mother was gone, but she left the coin, a quarter minted in
the year of Olivia’s birth, on the kitchen table. A final act of cruelty, a
strange coincidence, or the perceived worth of her daughter’s life?

Olivia’s chest tightens.
Maybe,
she thinks,
parts of
you never move on, away, no matter how much you want them to.
Then again,
her inability to feel pain affects her body’s ability to heal. Maybe it has the
same effect on her heart.

“Fuck you,” she whispers.

She carries the letter outside and tosses it in the first trash
can she passes. She chain smokes her way to the café and pretends the catch in
her throat is from the harsh tobacco.

Title: Roses in Bloom

Medium: Wild roses, with thorns, on the vine, wire
wrapping

Canvas: Entire body

Olivia watches Trevor’s face as he looks over her sketch.
He’s chewing the inside of his cheek, as always, a habit she’s glad she doesn’t
have. She wouldn’t know when to stop and walking around with a hole in her face
would be unpleasant; it would turn her from artist into freakshow. While she
waits, she rubs a scar on the back of her hand, the last remaining trace of her
last exhibit. The scar is bright pink against the pale of her skin, but soon
enough it will fade to match the rest of them. Her hands heal slower than
anything else.

She reaches for her coffee cup but hesitates and rests her hand
on the edge of the table instead. She can’t tell from Trevor’s expression what
he’s thinking, but she’s afraid she knows the answer. It’s too much. It’s too
in your face.

Why did she contact me?

Finally, he slides the sketch back across the table and nods his
head. “I like it. I like it a lot. It really pushes the envelope.”

She lets out a breath. “You don’t think it’s too…extreme?”

“No, I think people will love it. Some might freak out, but
whatever. Anyone who’s been to one of your shows will know what to expect.”

She slides her coffee over. “Is this safe for me to drink yet?”

He takes a sip and nods. “Yeah, it’s good.”

(The tasting is a minor inconvenience. Far better than the helmet
her father insisted she wear as a young child to keep from giving herself a
concussion or worse, even when playing alone in her room. At least once she
started school, he allowed her to leave the helmet at home.)

Why in the hell did she contact me?

Many people mistakenly think she can’t feel anything, but she
feels textures, hunger, the pressure of an embrace, the pleasure of an orgasm.
Only her pain receptors are screwed up. The condition itself is rare and has a
pretty medical term, but she prefers to call it genetic fuckery.

She cups the mug in her hands. The ceramic is warm to the touch,
but it could be scorching hot and she wouldn’t know. Since she can’t sense
extremes in temperatures, she has to check the weather each day so she knows
how to dress. “Anything you want changed?” She peeks at her hands; her skin
isn’t bright red.

“No, not at all. I’ll get everything squared away on my end. And
you’re okay with the fifteenth? I’d give you the Saturday before but I’ve got
the contortionists coming in again.”