Beautiful Scars Read online

  KAIA REI

  To Mom and Dad, for always believing in me

  Part 1

  Escaping with the Truth

  1

  Secrets

  Sweat soaks my upper lip and I toss over in bed pulling the rough sheets with me, unable to escape the claws of my nightmare. My feet pound the ground, making hardly any sound on the damp leaves and moss. If I strain my ears, I can hear them behind me, far away, but not far enough. If I turned around, I’m sure I could see their twisted expressions, their blood-soaked lips, and venomous snake-like eyes. But I don’t dare turn around, it will only slow me down and time is a precious resource that I don’t have.

  The trees just ahead of me stretch out their limbs as if they have just woken from a pleasant dream. Lucky trees, I haven’t been so blessed of late in the department of pleasant dreams. The stretching branches reach over to each other and curl in on themselves, leaving a delicately woven wall of branches. Despite the very unrealistic conditions of my nightmare, fear is still pounding through my heart, snaking its way into my head and choking any ability to be able to think rationally. Suddenly, the wall of branches in front of me shrivels away as if something poisonous has touched them. In their place stands a den of snakes. Honestly, this nightmare probably would’ve ended better if this was an actual den of snakes.

  The 3 figures in front of me are cloaked in a deep black material that’s piped with red around the edges. At their arrival, wind whistles through the trees, sinking its icy fangs into my bare skin with a biting cold and whipping down their hoods in eerie unison.

  Bloodshot oval eyes glare ominously at me, carrying the whisper of something foreboding about to happen. I tear my gaze away from them and force myself to take in the rest of their bodies. Each figure has pasty skin with arms that are thinnish but clearly muscly as well. I bring my sight line up to watch their cracked and thin, but vivid red lips, twist up into a smile that’s more of a smirk, revealing yellowing teeth. Ew. Just as this thought swipes across my mind, one of the trio steps forward and pulls out a dagger.

  It may only be a nightmare, but I can still feel the immobilizing sensation of fear that waves over me and threatens to pull me underneath. It feels like a paralyzing poison that spreads through my veins, drowning out my voices of reason. The knife swims before my eyes, waving around in all directions yet somehow keeping its end trained on me. The two other figures step forward and pin me down to the ground, holding down an arm and a leg each. I try to kick out but my limbs won’t obey my commands and are instead frozen to the ground, limp. The man holding the knife steps towards me and I look up at him, my body unable to move, yet my eyes portraying all the fear swimming in my heart. He bends down and presses the tip of the dagger against the skin above my heart gently like he’s measuring where to plunge the dagger. The last thing I see is his calculated smirk, piercing blue eyes looking out at me, almost regretful, as the knife plunges into my skin.

  I scream myself awake, bolting up in my small bed, and somehow end up tumbling over the edge. I sit up in my meager heap of sheets, rubbing my bruised back from the metal bed frame. I shake my head, trying in vain to shake away the strains of my nightmare that are still clinging to me like cobwebs. I sigh and yank the sheets off the floor, dumping them on the bed, seeing no point in making the bed as I’ll only mess it up again tonight. Well, now that I’m up, I might as well get a start on my “gathering”. Or if I was to be technical, stealing.

  I pull on a plain gray shirt with some faded blue jeans that have long since lost their stiffness in the legs, making them perfect to run in. Shrugging on a slightly puffy black jacket, I lace up some old leather boots that have melded to my feet over the years. When you do work like mine it’s not just important to melt into the crowd. It’s vital.

  I creep out of the house, my shoes making no sound on our cold floor. I glance into my mother’s room and see that she’s still asleep despite my screams. I’m not surprised, she started tuning them out as they got more frequent ever since Dad left. I look at the other figure curled up in the bed, my younger sister Tori who sleeps with my mother because she doesn’t have her own room. I provide the food and Tori still gets the love. Nothing I can do will ever be good enough for my mother, no matter how hard I try. I don’t care. About Tori, about her. I don’t need anyone. But even though I repeat this to myself, it doesn’t help the wound inside me that knows I want their love more than anything. But whenever you try to treat wounds, you feel the burning pain before you eventually feel the relief. A pain that I’m not ready for, so I do the next best thing you can do to a wound like mine, I tell myself that I don’t care. And eventually, fiction becomes so mixed up with reality that you can’t tell the difference. And I can’t. Not any more.

  I pick up my pace and continue out the door, taking care to close it gently behind me. A cold wind swipes in as soon as I’m out of the small house, numbing my face. Instead of pulling my jacket closer though, I embrace the biting wind because it numbs the pain and chases my feelings away. A light pattering of snow drifts down, riding the wind and smattering my hair with flecks of white. Sighing, I pick up my pace into a light jog, having cold muscles won’t help at all if I need to run away.

  The walk into town isn’t a long one, roughly 10-15 minutes at most. I don’t meet anyone on the way there, but the town center is bustling as usual when I arrive, despite it being early in the morning. Rows of stalls and vendors line the pavement, each shouting out their goods to passersby. The streets near here are always the best for thieves like me as the hustle and bustle covers the odd exclamation of people noticing us picking pockets or pinching goods and the crowds make anyone’s attempt to chase us futile.

  I inhale the warm scent of spices and relish the prickling sensation that tingles in my nose. I jostle in and out of the crowd, looking for a job. My eyes dart around, flicking from stall to stall like a snakes tongue, analyzing each individual.

  I’ve slowed down to a brisk walk now and flex my fingers inside my jacket’s pockets to try and pump some warmth back into them. I look from stall to stall until I find a good catch. A woman, probably in her early thirties, stands with her back to me, examining a beige coat with brown accents. Dressed in a fine cloak of grey with black leather boots that don’t have so much as a crack in them, I identify her as someone who, upon closer inspection, has a small pool of wealth. Her caramel coloured hair is tied back neatly in a high bun and she holds herself tall with a posture to be commended for as I step forward, pretending to be interested in a bunch of various shades of purple tulips in the stall next to her.

  “Ain’t those a beauty, love?” I jump as I realise that the stall keeper in front of me is talking.

  “Um, yes. A wonderful shade of, err, purple. Truly lovely,” I stumble to respond, hoping that the lady doesn’t take much notice in me. I never really understood why someone would waste perfectly good money on plants that would die in a few days anyway.

  “For you, I’ll sell them with a five percent discount,” the stall owner in front of me winks, trying in earnest to sell the tulips.

  “Oh, um, thanks but I, er, must be going,” I say hurriedly and scuttle off to the stall on the other side of the lady.

  “What about ten percent, lady?” He calls after me, but I ignore him and continue walking.

  The stall that I have arrived at sells little trinkets and wooden boxes. I stay on the edge of the stall closest to my catch and keep my head down, hoping that this seller will not try and converse with me. I sneak a look to my left and spot a large pocket in the woman’s coat which will hopefully hold a wallet or something else that I can trade for. I take an old little coin purse from my pocket. It’s filled with some grains of rice and small metal scraps that give it the weight and
sound of coins and pretend to fumble with it. It slips from my grasp and lands at the lady’s feet with a little chink.

  “Oh, I’m such a klutz! One day I’ll lose that and then where would that leave me? My mother would be so angry with me if I lost her good luck purse!” I say, pretending to sound as if one day, my so called “klutziness” will be the death of me. I speak loud enough so that the lady can hear me and quietly enough to sound like I’m talking to myself. I begin to bend down to pick it up when I here the lady next to me speak.

  “Oh, never mind, honey! You just got to keep a tight hold of your purse and everything will be fine,” she says, her voice sweet as sugar. “Here, let me get it for you.”

  As she bends down to retrieve my little purse, my hand darts out of my pocket and dives into her coat’s pocket, being careful to be gentle so she doesn’t feel my hand rustling through her cloak.

  My hand shifts carefully around, looking for the bulk of a wallet. Paper, paper, wrapper, paper. I break out in a sweat, I have less than a second to take my hand out if I want to stay unnoticed. The lady is starting to slowly stand back up again just as my hand clasps around something bulky that I presume to be a wallet. However, I know that it’s too late to take my hand out without her noticing, so I pretend to take a small step forward to be ready to grab my purse when I trip, sending myself and the lady tumbling down with me. In the few seconds of time that we’re in the air, I slither my hand out from her pocket, pulling the wallet out with me.

  The wind swirls in, rummaging in the woman’s coat with its spindly fingers and yanking out some of the papers that were in her pocket. They ride the breeze before landing around the woman’s feet in a mess.

  “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry! Are you hurt? Here let me help you with these!” I gush, trying to sound like an innocent and young girl who is very concerned about her. I push myself to my knees and gather up the sheets.

  “I’m fine. Next time you should be more careful of where you step. Run along now, I don’t need any help to gather these up,” she says briskly, hurriedly snatching the sheets of paper out of my hands, any façade of a kind woman crumbling away. But before she managed to take the papers out of my hand, I catch a quick glimpse of what was written on them. And from the looks of things, there was way more to that woman than what met the eye.

  I watch as the woman scurries away, glancing over her shoulder every now and then, clutching a firm hand to her pocket. Soon she melds into the crowd and I can no longer see her. My fingers itch to take out the wallet and find out what’s inside but I force myself to wait until I’m somewhere where people won’t question why I, a young and poor girl, has a loaded wallet. Normally I would pick a few extra pockets, but my encounter with the lady has put me on edge and I’m likely to be less careful. So, I head forward through the market stalls, deciding to do some trading with an acquaintance of mine.

  I pull my jacket closer and continue on with a light jog. The various smells from the market only add to my ravenous hunger and although I could probably stop and buy something now, I know I would get a better deal with the trader I’m headed to. So, I ignore the delicious smells and continue on though the cold.

  I wind my way through the crowds, weaving through the various maze-like rows of goods, knowing the fastest ways through the stalls like the back of my hand. The snow has begun to fall in a steadier rhythm now and has started to make a thick path that smothers the cement. After a bit, I exit the last few stalls and am spat out into a forest. I let a small smile play at my lips, the forest always makes me feel at home. I slow down to a walk in the woods, wanting to hold on to the serenity and beauty of it all forever. The hubbub from the markets fade away and the chirping call of birds replace it. I take a deep breath in, relishing the amazing freshness of the air.

  I veer off to the right of the forest where I continue walking for a couple of minutes before I come to a small grove of houses. Barely anyone lives out here and only a few dot the scenery. I head towards a little house that, when compared to mine, is a mansion. It is slightly run-down, but nowadays whose house isn’t? It’s painted in a dark black but most of the paint has peeled away over time, revealing a white undercoat. The windows are dusty and most are cracked. In some panes, there is no glass at all. I approach the door and raise my fist to rap on the rotting wood. The door swings open and a boy around my age stands in the doorframe. His light brown hair is mussed and freckles speckle his cheeks. Imposing and all-knowing emerald eyes peer out at me before a smile tugs up his lips and he opens up his arms to me welcomingly.

  “Skyla!”

  “Hi Ash,” I say in response, nodding my head to him.

  “Come on in!” Ash steps to the side and beckons me into his house.

  As soon as I enter, Ash leads me through to a living room adorned with a single couch and a chair that sits around a coffee table. The brown leather on the couch is cracked and some of the stuffing spills out through it but it still looks comfier than anything I own. Ash gestures for me to sit down so I perch on the edge of the couch even though I want to collapse back in it. He sighs at my formality and sprawls himself on the other side of the couch.

  “So, my friend, you here to trade?” I bristle at the term “friend”. For starters, I have no friends. And even if I went out of my way to make some, Ash and I would still only be acquaintances. I wouldn’t trust him for a split second nor do I like his form of thievery. In fact, I despise it. Ash steals to make himself rich, to fill his life with all the best things whereas I steal to feed my family, to keep me and them going in this cruel world. I steal to survive. I have no doubt that if I looked up the definition of kleptomaniac in a dictionary, I would find Ash’s face. Then perhaps a brief description about him and all his kleptomania habits ending with the line, To make his life abundant with all the best things that life has to offer, he would even go as far as to kill.

  I notice Ash staring at me expectantly and I nod my head to his comment about trading, pulling out the wallet from my pocket. I realise that my fist is still curled tightly around the wallet and as I open my fist a piece of paper flutters to the ground. Placing the wallet on the couch, I bend down to retrieve it. I stuff it in my pocket, hoping to read it later and sit back up. Ash gives me a questioning glance but thankfully is more focused on what’s in the wallet than to ask me about the slip of paper.

  The wallet is lilac colored and has a shiny gold zipper that opens up. When I tug on it, it slides back with ease. I gasp when I look inside and I fall back onto the couch, my shock overriding my formality. I can vaguely hear Ash’s voice calling to me but it sounds distant and irrelevant, like he is at one end of a tunnel and I the other. As he talks, the tunnel distorts his voice and sends it into a thousand fractals, reaching my ears in a mushy way.

  For some reason, I don’t want to show Ash what’s in the wallet. I don’t know why but when I go to open my mouth and show him, my mouth goes dry and itchy, immediately closing again. I need time on my own to look at the wallet. To try and understand what is simply out of my understanding. On my own. Not with Ash. Suddenly, I’m wrenched out of my thoughts by a rough shake.

  “Skyla! Skyla Rivera!” I look up to see Ash towering over me, fear etched in his brow. I look up at him with a frown and he lets go of my shoulders. He tells me that as soon as I opened the wallet, I wouldn’t respond to anything he said and just sat there blankly. I can see that he’s genuinely concerned about me and for a brief second, I wonder why. Why this ruthless boy would be concerned about little unimportant Skyla. A small wave of guilt ebbs at me and my decision to not show him what’s in the wallet when he is clearly is worried about me but I push it away and tell myself that I still don’t trust him nor do I owe him any guilt. I watch as he disappears out of the living room to grab something, my mind still trained on what was in the wallet. Before I know it, I feel my body beginning to shake slightly and dig my fingernails into the leather to try and stop the small tremors. Ash returns holding a cup of tea and I gratefully
accept, my hands holding the cup so hard I’m scared it might crack. Like me.

  The liquid is hot and I place my face over the steam, letting it soak into my skin, thawing my coldness. I take a tentative sip of the warm tea, letting the water run down my throat, spreading its warmness down it. The tea is quite weak and I can tell that the tea bag Ash used has been used many times before but it still tastes great.

  Ash comes and sits down beside me but I don’t lift my face off the tendrils of steam. Gently, he pries my right hand off the cup and presses something in it. As he curls my fingers around it, I feel the smooth surface of coins in my palm. The cold metal leeks the newly acquired warmth right out of my hand again. My head lashes up from the cup and I open my fist taking out the coins and trying to hand it back to him. But Ash just shakes his head and presses them back in my hand. Questions form on my lips but before I can speak, he talks to me.

  “I knew your father, you know….Well, I liked to think I knew him,” his voice is soft, barely above a whisper, yet I can hear every syllable. His words startle me, Ash knew Dad?

  “It was around 7 years ago, I think, when I first met him. I watched from the shadows, hooked on the way his hands moved, the quickness and finesse of his thievery. For such an ugly sport, it was incredible how beautiful he made it. He only ever stole what he needed and I was amazed at that. Even at such a young age, my heart was not nearly as innocent. So, every day, I would watch him from the shadows. Watch him taking only a small amount from the people who wouldn’t miss it. That’s when I saw him teaching you. Immediately I knew you were his daughter, you had the same brown hair, the same deep blue eyes, that were so full of intelligence and life, as him. He would take you out to the forest where you and he would spend hours practicing the sleight of hand, the art of stealing. I would always watch you and him from a distance and eventually started practicing some of the things he taught you on my own. My hands were never as deft as his were, nor was my heart in the same place but after watching him, my skills improved.” I soak in Ash’s words, not wanting to miss a single bit of the story of my father.