A Sky Full of Blue

Chapter 11: Light Pink is the Color of My Scar

"Scars should remind you of where you've been. But they don't have to dictate where you're going." ~Unknown

*WARNING* This chapter  may be a little disturbing for those who do not like the display of blood, or thoughts of death (I don't want to upset anyone by not informing them beforehand).

Song to listen to: Saturday Nights by Khalid

My mind is whirling. I've never been to a dance before, yet Theo is coming over to see what dress I have picked out, what color scheme I'm thinking of choosing. I feel light as a feather, but not at peace. It's like I don't want to experience any of this for fear that I mess it up somehow.

I've created my own personal Hell and I cannot get out of it.

I stand in front of a mirror, assessing my face. I look over my two different colored eyes, the slight curve of my nose, my thin, closely pressed lips. My cheeks light up with color. What does Theo see? I brush past my hair and look at the faint scar on my forehead. To me it stands out like a beacon against my pale skin. The line is long and thin, caused by my own pain.

I put a finger to the scar, feeling the slight ridge of puckered skin. I shudder. I'm taken back to that day last year, when I couldn't control my anger, my sadness.

I stand in the bathroom, door locked. I stare at the mirror, hands shaking in time to the beat of the clock. I take a brush and throw it at the infernal object, watching as it falls to the ground and shatters. The glass litters the ground, and I stop myself from stepping over the shards to watch myself bleed. No one can see those scars.

I feel the need to be marked, marred so that people know who and what I am. I can feel the anger as I take a razor, ready to put it to my skin. My fingers shake as I keep it to my wrist, ready. My breathing is ragged.

I can feel and see my emotions clearly for once, and they mark my skin as if they are painted on. They stand out as if they are tattooed.

Someone's knocking on the door. I can hear voices. I feel my tears, hot and dripping, down my face. Before I can stop myself the blade cuts in, and blood drips down into the sink. It's not a deep cut, but it causes enough damage.

I hear the key slide into the lock, bringing me back. I'm screaming as the red drips violently. I take a shard of glass from the floor. It cuts through the thin skin on my fingers. I take it and run it across my forehead in an act of desperation. I need people to see that I'm not safe, that I'm not a good thing.

Toby stands in the doorway, seeing all the glass, all the red. His face is slack and pale, and I can see the green tone underneath his skin. His jaw clenches as he takes me by the hand, dragging me away from the bathroom, from my own damnation.

I kick at him, claw at his arm. He doesn't relent, and keeps a level head. He yells for Mom and Dad, but something in me tells me to not show them what I have done.

"No. Please." I stare up at him.

"Not Mom and Dad. They can't see this." My cheeks heat up. Toby stares at me, and his eyes are as dull as I've ever seen them.

"You feel the shame. You know what you did was wrong." The heat of his words are like knives digging into my skin. His next words are almost a whisper, nothing more than a marker of words.

"You think you can just leave?" I'm pushed back, and my chest is heaving. I press on my wrist, right where the other scar is, feeling my heavy pulse. I'm alive, I'm here.