I feel the tears trailing down my cheeks one at a time, leaking from my cloudy eyes and over the scarring surrounding the corners where laughter crinkles are supposed to be. Instead, it’s rough skin that feels bumpy yet smooth from scarred tissue. Like a spiderweb, the scar weaves into my flesh, starting from the right side of my hairline and extending across the bridge of my nose, connecting to my other eye, which is equally cloudy green.
My scars feel paper-thin, but at the very corners of my eyes where the tears begin to leak, it’s pulled tight. It feels similar tothe moment when I tip my head back and my gaze meets the sun. It’s glaring, bright, and painful.
“That’s enough,” I whisper, sliding across the comforter on my bottom until I reach the edge of my nightstand.
Inga sighs heavily as usual, used to my mood swings and tears every single day without fail.
“It will get better, Lass, if only you would stop hiding. Twenty-one is still young to get out there and be wild,” she says softly as she lays my brush in the same spot on my dresser as always and leaves me to get dressed.
Same routine, same words every day for the last few years.
Nothing changes, though. Maybe it’s my stubborn streak I inherited from both parents, even though I barely remember my mom. All a distant memory, really. But this is what I have to look forward to every day, which is absolutely nothing.
So much in my life has been taken from me. My thoughts are about the only thing I have left that no one can take away. Well, except for the one piece of fabric you’ll have to rip from my cold, dead hands before I ever give it up. It’s a material that’s mine and mine alone.
Red silk.
The same red silk ribbon that slides like water between my hands until the pads of my fingertips reach broken, stringed edges from being worn too many times. Grabbing the ends, I lift the fabric and place it over my scarring, trying to disappear behind one lone ribbon that never left my body when everything else did. It’s felt my tears, soaked up my blood, and stayed gentle against my most painful moment in life.
“It’s just a silly piece of silk,” I mumble to myself as I tie it behind my head and straighten the sides until they are smooth and covering both of my eyes. “But it’s the last thing I saw.”
I breathe deeply through my nose; I swear I can still smell vanilla on the fabric, unscented candles from the church withhints of smoke, and if I inhale deeper, somehow the smell of damp, fresh-turned earth and woods after the rain.
It’s the scent of sin and healing all wrapped in one.
Twisted together, the man and the devil form a savior, leaving behind broken pieces.
I still can’t forget the deep, dark brown eyes that caused me so much pain, as they always flash behind my closed eyelids along with the image of rough yet gentle, large hands wrapped in silk.
Red silk.
I always did like the color red.
It reflects passion, love, desire, and lust, but it also has a darker side. Pain, grief, war, and anger all come from the color red.
Many of the paintings I used to create on a blank canvas were abstract and featured various shades of red that reflected my mood at the time. Now, though, I can’t fucking see any colors except black, white, and grey shadows.
I miss painting; it was a release and a way to express myself when I couldn’t share my thoughts out loud, but my paintings spoke for themselves. I’d give anything to see color again, but just the thought of picking up a paintbrush makes my hands shake with an anxious energy that always seems to burn in my gut.
“Feeling woe is me," I sigh and slip on sunglasses to go over the silk so not many will stare. I mean, they still stare. People can’t help it. They see a person with a visually impaired cane and my personal little bodyguard.
Sofia.
My sweet, vicious Doberman dog is named Sofia. She’s the best lead dog and understands I’m not a people person. She’s always giving off warning growls if someone stands too close tome. I like to pretend she randomly showed up in my life by some nameless miracle, but I know she came from him.
Who else would place the best, well-trained dog at my freaking front door and already have her doing commands that will help me in day-to-day life? I can only think of one man, and as much as I loathe his ass, I couldn’t turn Sofia away. She’s my furbaby; I loved her at her first bark.
“Come, Sofia, let’s go take a walk through Central Park.” I whistle loudly and hear her nails tapping on the hardwood floor as she comes down the hallway until she reaches my bedroom door, shoving it open with her long snout. “Hi, baby. Do you have your leash?”
She nudges my hand with her nose, dropping her leash in my waiting palm. It makes me laugh every time because she already knows what to expect. We have the same routine every single day. It’s kind of sad, really, when you think about it. Exhaling a sigh that feels trapped in my chest, I pat my fingers on my nightstand until they find my sunglasses. “The sun is wasting, Lass,” Inga yells from somewhere near the front door, waiting impatiently as usual, as if we have something better to do.
I pat my thigh and feel Sofia brush against me as we walk down the hallway with one hand between her shoulder blades and my other trailing along the blank walls. I know when we enter the open living room because I can feel the sunlight warming my skin from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Living on the penthouse floor has some perks, I guess. I always know it’s going to be a sunny day with warm weather. I turn away from the windows as I hear Inga putting on her shoes and her scarf, which she wears every day, no matter how warm it is outside. I swear she covers up from neck to ankles. Gasp if anyone sees some skin. Although I don’t blame her, it is uncertain whether she has her own scars to cover up or if she believes that a lady should dress in the style of the eighteen hundreds. She has attempted toensnare me in long-sleeved dresses on the hottest days in New York.
“Let’s go,” I mutter as I slip on my strappy sandals, hoping she won't try to convince me to change my mind about wearing my white summer dress, which has rows of buttons up the front and is made of the softest material brushing against my legs.
Sofia and I are out the door just as I hear Inga smack her lips together with a click of her tongue. That's her way of showing she's given up before even starting an argument with me. I’m as stubborn as they come. Sofia pushes the elevator button with her nose before I can, making me chuckle at how eager she is to go out exploring in the park. Dinging, the doors slide open, and we pile in as I skim my fingers over the buttons until I find the level one button. I do remember a lot of heart, touch, sound, and smell, but thank God that someone thought to put braille on common things that help the visually impaired. It comes in handy when the shadows are too dark for me to make out anything or if I’m wearing my blindfold.
The elevator stops one floor below, and a person steps into the enclosed space before moving to the right side behind me. Sofia lets out a small whine on my left; I pull her leash closer so she is almost plastered to my leg. She only makes that noise when she is curious about something or wants attention.
