~ Olivia ~
Six months have passed since that car hit me. All I can remember of the last hundred and eighty days is the pain.
The pain when I smile or eat.
The pain when I see my reflection in a mirror or window.
The ache of not being able to work with children because I’m ugly.
I had to leave the hospital. Not that they told me to. It was after the first operation when the bandages came off. I went to visit the children’s ward and I could see the fear in their eyes. Some even looked away. It hurt so much to see that they were scared of me. I lived for those smiles when I walked into a room. I used to be the one to comfort them … now there’s nothing.
I used to live a fairytale but now I’ve become the beast instead of being the princess.
The hearing was a nightmare. The judge just looked at my scarred face and then suspended the drunk driver’s license. That man got away with only a suspended license and two months of community service. He destroyed my life while his goes on all because he’s the brother of some huge investor for the city.
It’s awful feeling like a victim. You have no control over your life, and all you can do is watch helplessly as it’s ripped right from your grasp. You feel vulnerable and lost, floating in an ocean of dread and then the law fails you. They were supposed to punish him, lock him away in some deep, dark hole, but instead he’s out there while I’m the one locked away. No one fought for me. It’s awful feeling like a victim, but it’s unbearable feeling like a scarred freak that’s not worth fighting for.
I haven’t left the apartment during the day. I sleep during the day and stay up at night. Darkness hides a lot, including the scars on my face.
It’s hard to keep track of the days when you live at night. They just seem to blur into the background until your world consists of greys and blacks – no more light.
The man that destroyed my life gets to walk in the sun while I have to hide in the shadows.
I want him dead. I want him to pay for what he’s done to me.
My eyes go to the window opposite from mine. I’ve been watching Mason. He never closes his curtains. He’s caught me staring a few times, and then all he does is stare back.
I’ve been watching Mason and I wonder what he does at night. Where does he go? Mostly, I wonder if he’s ever killed someone. I wonder about it, because it’s the only thing I can think of. Killing John Brown, the drunk who stole my fairytale from me.
I was supposed to see someone, to talk about the accident, to help deal with the scars. I think it’s ridiculous how people think you can talk the hurt away. How the hell will talking take the scars away? Sitting on a couch in some stranger’s office won’t turn back time.
I fantasize about ways I can take revenge on John Brown. Hours pass as I dream about shoving him in front of a train, or locking him in the trunk of a car so he’ll just slowly waste away while I drive around with him, knowing he’s dying a slow and painful death.
At first those thoughts shocked me. I’ve never been a violent person until now. Now, the violence has taken on a living form inside of me. It breathes … slowly … in and out – and every breath drifts through me. It’s become a howling wind in my mind.
Not that I have the energy to kill the bastard. It takes everything in me to just get up once in a while. My bed has become an altar on which all my dreams and hopes are being sacrificed. Every single day, I hide under the covers, feeling them slip further out of my reach.
If I don’t get up, I don’t have to face myself in the mirror so all I do is lie here, staring out the window to where Mason’s room is.
It’s the early morning hours when he walks into this room. He looks my way and I know he sees me. I wonder what he sees when he looks over here. Does he see the beast hiding under the covers, or does he see a pathetic little girl that’s given up on life? Either way, he sees something that makes him keep looking over here.
I wish he would stop. I don’t want to be seen.