The Scars She Hides

Part 9 - Temptation

CHARLOTTE

The orange bottle of medication was tempting. It was sitting on the bedside table, whispering its encouragement into my ear. Promises of chemically induced peace and sleep. An escape into a mind numbing fog for the night. 

I turned away from the pills, facing the wall in my dorm room.

I had been back on campus for a few hours, but had failed to do anything productive in that time other than take up residency in my bed. I had burrowed under the sheets, only my eyes peeking out at the shadows splayed across the white walls. One picture was pinned at eye level, the only new addition to the room after the events of this last week.

My mothers photo stared back at me in the quiet.

I traced her features in my mind's eye, for what seemed like the thousandth time since hearing the news. Her dark brown hair pulled into a messy pony tail. Freckles muttered across her sunburned face. She was leaning against her white truck, our colourful canues sticking out the back.

It was taken two summers ago, before she had met Henry.

We had taken one of her rare weekends off to bum around at the lake near our house. We had spent the whole day listening to bad country music on the water, eating slightly soggy sandwiches, and doing more swimming than actual canoeing.

It had been the perfect day.

I reached out a finger to trace her smile.

I didn't smile back.

—------------------

For being enrolled in a private school, my privacy wasn't a top priority.

Somehow the news of my mothers death had spread through the school, and turned the entire campus into a field of sympathetic landmines.

People who had never even bothered to make eye contact with me were approaching my desk with sympathetic looks and words of condolences. Teachers pulled me up to their desks throughout the day, asking if I was 'okay'.

All of this was fine and well, people were being polite-nice even, to the unsocial girl with no connections and no friends.

What pushed me closer and closer to my breaking point was the touching.

Constant pats on the back, hands on shoulders, and even a few strokes of my hair. My limit for physical interaction had been met, and WELL passed by the time lunch had come around.

I had resorted to wearing large headphones after that, the kind that resemble high tech earmuffs, along with pulling the hood of my jacket up to cover most of my head. I could think of no louder way to get my message across to people. Do. Not. Approach. Me.

I made my way across campus, not taking my eyes off the ground. I only saw a few steps ahead of me at a time, not noticing or caring if I ran into anyone. The music played loudly in my ears, some slow and melancholy tune that fit the depressing pattern of my mood.

I passed the coffee cart. Habit made me want to turn and buy my usual cup. I slowed and gazed at the busy baristas behind the counter, and the customers waiting in line.

Guilt made my stomach turn sour. Sadness tightened my chest, constricting my lungs. A heavy wave of depression clouded my thoughts.

Mom is dead, and I was thinking about coffee.

I turned away from the cart sharply, and continued to Holden's workshop. I didn't take my eyes off the ground again.

The door to the building was unlocked, meaning Holden was probably already inside, and I was late. No surprise there. The path up the stairwells and turns down the hall were second nature by now, I didn't have to think about them. The door to the workshop was propped open, letting the room ventilate in the afternoon heat. I could hear Holden working on a project of his, the metal clinking in rhythmic patterns.

I leaned against the doorway and watched him for a moment. He hadn't noticed me yet, too focused on the delicate porcelain hand on the centre table. Holden's hands worked slowly, tightening and adjusting various metal pieces within the mechanical hand. He adjusted the fingers, bent the wrist, studied the pieces one by one.

A small pin prick of warmth fired in my chest, loosening the tight grip my on lungs.

Holden was a tower of a man, with a lean and solid frame. He was surly by nature, and grumpy by habit. His hands were rough and scared, ink splashed across his knuckles and up into the sleeves of his shirt. He looked like everything I had been taught to fear- A large aggressive man.

Except he was soft in the moments that mattered most. In the way that he handled that small prosthetic arm. The way that he buckled my helmet before helping me onto the bike.

In the way he always gave me the choice to make contact first.

I didn't step into the room. I gave into the temptation to watch, and hide from my grief and sadness for a moment longer.