Joey

I got out of the shower, dried off, and then rubbed lotion along the length of my right leg. After grabbing the bottle of Bio Oil from the vanity, I spread the substance on my left leg from mid-calf up to where my scarring stopped – at the bottom of my butt cheek.

I gazed in the mirror. The skin covering my leg appeared thin and almost translucent in some places, and a discolored milky pink in others. The front of my thigh was smooth and without many irregularities – other than the fact it was covered with skin that looked like mesh. On each side of my leg, for the entire length, there were unsightly places where the lesser scarred skin didn’t merge so well with the edges of the large skin graft.

It seemed the only person who could stand to look at it was me. Even after more than a decade, I found it difficult to accept what I was left with was as good as it could be.

I didn’t wallow in self-guilt or sorrow. I realized I was far more fortunate than many other burn victims, and that my degree of being flawed was minimalistic when compared to losing a limb.

Knowing this didn’t prevent me from wishing things were different.

Most days I was comfortable with who I was. Like anyone, though, it would be very comforting to have others accept me.

I had yet to encounter anyone who was able to do so. Most who saw my leg perceived it as grotesque. I wasn’t invited to pool parties or to the beach, nor did I attend any functions that required me to wear a dress.

The women, at least initially, were sympathetic and kind. Behind my back, they talked about me as if I were carrying a terrible disease.

The men, on the other hand, were much different. In school, when a boy asked me on a date, I hoped things would be different. It was almost as if they’d asked me out to simply see if the damage was as bad as they had been led to believe.

By the end of school, I felt like a circus attraction, and that the few dates I had gone on were merely requested to allow the boy to see if he could stand the sight of my damaged flesh.

Starting my sophomore year, I made myself as unattractive as possible in my appearance. It all but eliminated being approached by the opposite sex. The pain I felt when they eventually rejected me vanished.

I pulled on my panties, and then my jeans. At that moment, standing shirtless in front of the mirror, I was normal. If I could somehow eliminate my unsightly leg, I felt everything about my life that I didn’t like – except for my stepfather – would vanish along with it.

I knew, however, the only thing that could make it go away was to cover it up. Sooner or later, however, it had to be uncovered. Nothing can stay covered up forever.

While I dried my hair, the sound of his motorcycle’s exhaust shook the bathroom’s windows. I turned off the drier, ran to the bedroom window, and pushed the blinds to the side. Sitting in the driveway with a smirk on his face, he twisted the throttle a few times before shutting off the magnificent machine.

Be it that he was marking his territory, reminding everyone that he was a rebel, or that he simply enjoyed hearing his machine’s unique voice, it was something he did each time he returned from a ride. I guessed it was similar to flipping the neighborhood the middle finger.

Hiding behind the shelter of the window coverings, I waited for him to walk inside. He pulled off his helmet, scratched his flattened hair with the tips of his fingers, and lifted his leg over the seat. As he walked toward the porch, his right hip pivoted mechanically with each step.

Fascinated by his bravado gait, I watched as he sauntered all the way to the porch. After he disappeared through the doorway, I let out a sigh, released the blinds, and walked to the bathroom.

To the unknowing, I could easily be perceived as being a creep or the weird neighbor girl who was stricken with an odd obsession. Neither would be accurate, though. What drew me to him was equal parts admiration and fascination, friendship, and nothing more.

He was the epitome of a free spirit, and I admired that about him. I wished I could be as carefree, as simple, and as content with life as he was.

But I wasn’t.

Very few people were.

His unique outlook on life that drew me to him. Okay, that’s not totally true. His handsome looks sucked me in like an industrial vacuum.

I knew being with him – or anyone for that matter – was wishful thinking, but setting my sights high kept me striving to better myself.

And, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with a common girl believing that one day she just might become a princess.