Scar Tissue: Seven Stories of Love and Wounds

by Marcus Sakey

  The sky was clearing, the gray patchwork not lifting so much as coalescing into separate regions of dense cloud broken by vivid blue. The BMW reduced the outside world to a soft hum. His eyes felt grainy, his hands and head heavy. But he was pleased to note that the license plates read MAINE at the top.

  So he hadn't lost his mind. Maybe just misplaced it a little.

  Assuming that his first conscious act hadn't been to steal a car, and that the insurance was up to date, that meant that he'd driven three thousand miles. Three thousand miles followed by a swim in an ocean nearly cold enough to stop his heart. Why?

  Daniel rubbed at his eyes. His hands were raw. He could barely keep his eyes open. He needed to find a motel, sleep for a week. When he woke up, this would all be better. He'd remember who—

  Don't admit that. Madness lies that way.

  —what he was doing here. It would come clear.

  He passed a blink of a town, white clapboard and a sagging church. A girl pedaled a bicycle with streamers flowing from the handlebars. Sidewalks and town hall and a VFW with a Friday fish fry. A mile the other side, a roadside marquee announced vacancies at something called The Pines Motel, a low-slung cinderblock building huddled along the highway. Fine. Good. Perfect.

  The lot was gravel that popped under the tires. He stepped out into birdsong and chilly sunlight, tramped past a handful of dusty pickup trucks sporting rifle racks and hand-painted camouflage.

  The lobby was just an alcove off the main hall with a desk tucked into it. No one there. Hanging on the wall was a surprisingly good painting of a deer bounding over a fallen tree. The artist had caught the animal's panic, the brushstrokes menacing, the woods turned into the darkest sort of fairytale. He could sense the hunter beyond the border of the painting, the threat closer and more dangerous than the animal could know.

  "Help you?"

  Daniel whirled. A woman held a bead curtain half parted. He couldn't tell if she was a rugged thirty or an attractive fifty.

  "Yeah, sorry. Just admiring the painting."

  "My husband. Don't know why he bothers, myself. No use to the things. Keep trying to get him to paint over the old ones, but he likes to save them."

  "He should," Daniel said. "He's got a lot of talent."

  "A lot of time is what he's got. Don't know about talent."

  And what a lucky man he is to have you for a wife. "I, ah, I need a room."

  "Single or double?"

  "It doesn't matter."

  "Single's cheaper."

  "Single, then. A single will be fine."

  The woman sat behind the computer, began punching keys. "Forty dollars. How long?"

  "I'm—I'm not sure. What day is today?"

  She gave him a look that read city folk, but said, "Wednesday."

  "Okay. Just tonight for now." Wednesday. Nope. Nothing. He set the bank envelope on the counter, made sure she got a look at it. "You said forty?"

  She nodded, and he pulled out two twenties.

  "Name?"

  "Daniel Hayes."

  "Credit card?"

  "Huh?"

  "For a deposit."

  "You know, I lost my wallet. How about I just give you an extra forty as a deposit?"

  Her eyes narrowed, but she took the money. "Check out is noon. No smoking. You're in seven."

  "The room has cable, right?," he asked anxiously, and then did a double-take. Huh? The words had come out of his mouth unbidden. What did he care about—she was staring at him, so he said, "You know, television?"

  "Television. The magic picture box?"

  "Right. Sorry." He rubbed at his eyes. "I'm a little hazy."

  She handed him a key on a heavy brass fob, pointed down the hall. "That way. Ice and vending at the end."

  Room seven turned out to be a ten-by-twenty rectangle with a twin bed. The furniture was particle board, and the remote control was tethered to the night stand. The windows were draped in yellowed lace, giving the room a funeral parlor feeling. It smelled of chemical air freshener.

  Home sweet home.

  Daniel dropped the envelope on the dresser, went to the bathroom. He hesitated outside the door, his hand on the light switch.

  Probably the moment he did it, everything would come clear. The shock would part like fog. He'd remember everything. Have a good laugh, then fall asleep with a light heart.

  So why hesitate?

  He knew the answer. It wasn't hard to figure out. What happened if you looked in the mirror and didn't recognize yourself?

  Do it.

  Daniel flipped the switch. Florescent light flickered on, revealing linoleum floors and Formica counters.

  No fog parted. No veil lifted. The man in the mirror offered no answers.

  He looked exhausted, bruised and worn and dark-circled, but more or less familiar. For a vertiginous moment, Daniel lost track of which was him and which was the reflection, like one was a doppelganger that could break free and act independently, as he seemed to have snapped free from his life.

  "I don't feel crazy," he said, and the man in the mirror agreed. "I just don't…I don't-"

  Bile rose in his throat. He slapped at the light. Stepped out of the bathroom, pulling the dirty undershirt over his head as he went.

  Sleep. He would sleep for a long time, and when he woke up, he would remember. He would. He had to.

  Dear god.

  Please.

  Want more?

  My books are available for e-readers and in bookstores everywhere: The Amateurs

  Good People

  At The City’s Edge

  The Blade Itself

  Or visit MarcusSakey.com for news, contests, appearances, and movie updates

  And as always, thanks for reading!