Someone To Kiss My Scars: A Teen Thriller

by Brooke Skipstone

His blood rushed to his head as he lifted both hands. “Which means my stories are real, and they’re prompted by people nearby who are thinking about the memory before I see it.”

  Jazz approached him. “Did you see Anthony today?”

  “Yeah. He was crying in Patty’s office when I left Bentley.”

  “Maybe the kids had teased him about being an arsonist. Kids have bullied him all year about the fire. So all three stories today were about people you saw.”

  “True, but why them? How many others did I see today? Fifty? A hundred?” Hunter plopped down in a chair at the table. “Why those three?”

  “I don’t know yet. It seems that when memories invade your mind, they evidently leave the brain that formed them. Don’t ask me how, yet, but I’ll figure it out. Hey, I need some food. I’ll reheat last night’s leftovers, if you don’t mind. It’s hard to keep my body looking this good without a lot of fuel,” she scoffed. “I have spaghetti and meatballs or meatballs and spaghetti. Do you have a preference?”

  Hunter chuckled. “Either one’s good.”

  “Great. Easy to please. I like that in a man.” She opened the refrigerator, pulled out a glass dish covered in plastic wrap, and slid it into the microwave. She walked back to him, looking at the ceiling, obviously thinking about something. “So let’s recap. You wrote three stories today. Whose memories were they?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the one about me was obviously my memory of the event. I heard yelling and furniture scraping as I sat in the living room. I didn’t see him attack her. Your story was from my point of view. If I asked Mom about the event, she’d still remember it. You took my memory, not Mom’s or Leon’s.”

  “It was Eric’s memory. The story started with him outside. And the fire story was Anthony’s memory.”

  Hunter remembered his father this morning and the look on his face as Hunter came into the room. His skin tingled as the explanation of that look unfolded in his mind.

  “I wrote a story last night about a boy named Parker going into a dressing room only to find another boy still there. In his underwear. They had sex. I found Dad reading the story this morning, turning pale. He looked scared. Before I left, he asked me why the other boy didn’t have a name. Why would he care? At the time I thought that was an odd question, but now I think he was worried I’d say the boy’s name was Joe.”

  He felt blood rush to his face. “But the story was from Parker’s point of view. That was Dad’s memory! That would explain his reactions.” He saw Jazz smiling at him. “But why’d he call himself Parker in his memory?”

  “Defense mechanism,” said Jazz. “Maybe in his mind he denies he was the boy who walked in the dressing room. It was someone else named Parker, who I’ll bet was the real name of the other boy. He was scared you saw a deep secret of his, one he probably didn’t want to remember.”

  “As he read that story, the memory came back to him?”

  “Probably, which added to his fear. When I read your story about Leon, I had the weirdest feeling. It was like that event happened again for the first time. Usually memories fade so when you think about them, you don’t experience the same emotion you felt originally. But when I read your story, I was there. I’ll bet your father felt the same way.”

  The microwave dinged. She grabbed a towel and two forks then pulled out the dish. “Lunch is served.” She put the food on the table and sat. “Hmm, looks remarkably like last night’s dinner.” She held the two forks in her fist. “Choose your weapon.”

  Hunter smiled and pulled one of the forks out of her hand.

  Jazz stabbed a meatball and held the fork by her lips. “What was Eric doing when you walked into class this morning?” The fork disappeared into her mouth and emerged, minus the meatball.

  “Staring at Tucker. Almost falling out of his chair as she walked around the room.”

  “He was fantasizing about her. That’s the story you picked up on.”

  “I thought I was seeing memories.” He twirled spaghetti around his fork and stuck the wad into his mouth.

  Jazz’s eyes widened in excitement. “Fantasies and memories are formed in the same place in your brain. A group of scientists at the National Institute of Health did brain scans of people performing a real task and of people imagining doing the same tasks. There was no difference in brain activity or location. What we imagine happens is no different to the brain than what actually happens. They both become part of our memories. Just like Bentley’s version of his big shot in the game versus his fans’ version.”

  “How the hell do you know that?”

  “Because,” she stabbed another meatball, “I’ve read hundreds of articles about memory for my science project. I’m supposed to know this stuff.” She grabbed the meatball with her teeth, chewed a few times, then swallowed.

  “Wait,” said Hunter. “Ms. Tucker said her first name wasn’t Vanessa. Eric made that up.”

  “Sounds sexier than her real name.”

  “Which is?”

  “Mary.”

  “I’ll be damned.” Hunter twirled another wad of spaghetti. “Did you make this?”

  “From an old family recipe of Ragu, frozen meatballs, and spaghetti noodles cooked until they stick to the cabinet door when I throw them.”

  He chuckled. “You throw the noodles?”

  “Not all of them, silly. Just a few. In fact, I think there’s one still stuck on the cabinet to the right of the stove.” She pointed. “Now back to your other question.”

  “Which was?” He cut a meatball in half and stabbed one piece.

  “Why these stories? Why did you see those memories from those people as opposed to someone else’s?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do all your stories have sex in them?”

  He blinked several times and scratched his face. “The one about Anthony didn’t. No, that’s not true. That’s why Anthony had to stay outside. Yours didn’t.”

  “It would have if I hadn’t come out with a gun. He was going to beat her up while having sex with her.”

  Hunter choked a little while swallowing his food. “He’d done that before?”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t know it at first. When I saw her bruises, I talked to Mom. Told her to stand up to him and come to me if she needed help. She knew I kept a gun.” Jazz ate another meatball.

  “You kept a gun? Why didn’t she?”

  “Because they freak her out. I think we should look through your other stories.”

  “You could come over to my house after school.”

  “I’d love to.” She stared into his eyes. “How many of your other stories have sex in them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Guess. Half? Most?”

  “Probably most of them.”

  Jazz squinted her eyes. “Yet your Tremarian stories are about a genderless world that banished sex.”

  “They tried, but the Dumarians resisted, so there’s a war.”

  “A war between those wanting to eliminate sex and those who don’t. Which side do you want to win?”

  “The Tremarians.”

  “Really? The last one I read was about the Dumarians struggling to survive. They weren’t evil. I actually felt sorry for them.”

  Hunter dropped his fork and covered his face with his hands. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think sex is bad? You told me months ago that sex causes all of the world’s problems. Do you believe that?”

  “The Tremarians do.”

  “What do you think? All the sex in these four stories is illicit or forbidden or caused a fire or was an excuse to hurt a woman. Where’s the good sex?”

  Hunter leaned back and shook his head. “Is there any?”

  “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Have you ever had sex?”

  Hunter heard a scream, a long “Ahhhh!” He covered his ea
rs and grimaced.

  “Hunter? Are you OK?”

  He felt Jazz’s hands on his as his head pounded.

  “Hunter? Please! What’s the matter?”

  Hunter grabbed her hands in his, trying to breathe.

  “I heard a scream and then a pounding sound. At the start of every story, I’m in a hallway outside a bedroom door. Just before I saw your memory, I heard a voice through the door. She said, ‘I waited two weeks for this?’ Then I heard a door slam.”

  “Who was she?”

  “I don’t know.” Hunter stood. “I asked my dad this morning if our old house had handles on the doors instead of knobs because the door in my vision has a handle. He wouldn’t answer. I think I’m standing in my old house at the start of each story.”

  “Could that voice be your mother’s?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember her.”

  “‘I waited two weeks for this’ sounds like she’s upset about someone’s sexual response to her, or lack of a response.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like she wanted sex, but he wasn’t interested.”

  He pushed his hair away from his face. “Why am I seeing other people’s memories and not my own?”

  “I think you’re seeing some part of your memories. The woman yelled at the man for not being interested in her. Then you saw the memory where Leon yelled at my mom for being ugly and not sexually attractive to him. Maybe there’s some connection between your lost memories and the ones you’re seeing.”

  He sat down next to her. “I need to know what happened to me. Why my mother and brother died in a car wreck, if that’s how they died.”

  A man’s leering face flashed into Hunter’s mind as Jazz closed her eyes.

  She rubbed her face. “Maybe when you know, you’ll wish you didn’t.”

  Hunter almost described what he saw, but decided not to. He’d just embarrass her. He hesitated before he asked, “Have you had sex?”

  Jazz blew out a breath. “Nothing I want to remember. Maybe if we keep hanging out, you’ll see all my memories and take them away.”

  Hunter felt a rush of excitement. “Would you want that?”

  “I wouldn’t want you to know them, but I would like them to disappear.”

  “Maybe next time I won’t let you read the story.”

  She stood. “Hunter, this is so freakin’ weird!”

  “I know. Why is this happening to me?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll figure it out. I’m sorry, Hunter, but I need a drink.” She went to the cabinet where Hunter knew she stashed her liquor, took out a bottle of vodka, pulled a can of Coke from the refrigerator and poured it into a glass with ice. Then she added some vodka and stirred the mixture with a spoon. She drank about a third of the glass without a break.

  Hunter felt his breath catch in his chest as he watched her. “Do you always drink during lunch?”

  “No. And I’m sorry you’re seeing me do this, but you’re going to see lots more, Hunter. You probably won’t like me very much once you do.” She took another guzzle.

  Hunter went to her side, shoving his hands into his pockets, leaning toward her, almost touching her shoulder with his, then pulling back. “Jazz, you’re my best friend and the nicest person I know. I can’t believe you would ever do anything bad on your own. Leon deserved having a gun pointed at him. Would you have shot him?”

  “Yes, if he didn’t leave.”

  Hunter swallowed and raised his brows. “You could do that?”

  “I know I could. No doubt at all.” Her eyes met his as she drank from the glass.

  The strength of her answer left him lightheaded. No doubt? “Did he ever come back?”

  “Nope.” She guzzled the remaining liquid.

  “He wasn’t your father, right?”

  “No. He was just one of the assholes my mother latched onto.” She put the glass on the counter. “I never knew my father. I don’t think Mom knew him either.” She poured more Coke and vodka into the glass. “She said she was probably raped at a college party. Woke up with bruises and ripped clothes, smelling like vomit and sex.” She swirled the ice around the inside of her glass. “She called her parents from college and said she was going to kill herself.” She shook her head and took a sip. “They rushed up there and brought her home. Mom says they weren’t very happy with her, especially when they learned she was pregnant with me.” She scoffed and shook her head. “I decided to be conceived at a most inopportune time. They took care of Mom until I was born. We lived with them off and on until I was twelve.” She took another drink.

  He clasped his arms over his stomach. “Off and on?”

  “Yeah. Sometimes we lived with one of Mom’s boyfriends, but we always went back to her parents for one reason or another. Well, actually the same reason. The men were shits, and Mom couldn’t keep a job ‘cause of her drinking.” She wiped sweat from her forehead.

  The urge to hold her was almost overwhelming. He held his arms tighter. “Where do they live?”

  “In Oregon.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Because something really bad happened and we had to move far away.”

  “Really bad?”

  “I don’t want to think about it, because you’ll see it, and I don’t want you to.”

  “OK, but why did you come here in particular?”

  “She got a job at the base, then got fired. Then got another job at a restaurant bar, then got fired.”

  “How do you live?”

  “She hooks up with men until I make them leave . . . or . . . something happens.” She stared off and took another drink.

  He felt a tear run down his cheek. “How do you buy food, especially now that she’s in rehab?”

  “Before we left my grandparents, MawMaw, my grandmother, gave me a credit card and a phone and told me I could use the card as much as I needed but not to let my Mom know about it. I call them every once in a while, and they send new cards to the school for me. After I convinced Mom to go into rehab, she said that maybe we should go see them once she got better.”

  “Would you like that?”

  “Yeah. There’s been a few times I wanted to leave Mom to go back to them, but I could never do it. She’d keep finding assholes to beat her up. She’d be dead if it weren’t for me.” She wrapped her arms around herself.

  Hunter stared at her in a daze and slowly shook his head. “You must have a lot of memories you’d like to forget.”

  “Yeah.” She wiped a tear away from her left eye. “That night with Leon wasn’t too bad compared to others.”

  “Don’t you get lonely living out here by yourself?”

  “Are you kidding?” She laughed and stood. “I have parties every weekend. Kids come out here all the time.”

  Hunter scrunched his eyebrows then smiled.

  Jazz leaned against the stove. “Actually, you’re the first person from school to be in this house.”

  Hunter walked toward her. “I wish it had been sooner and under better circumstances.”

  “Me, too, Hunter. Me, too.” She finished her drink and put the glass on the counter. “We should probably get back to school.”

  Hunter felt such sadness for his friend. He’d never expected her life outside of school to be so difficult.

  He reached out for her hands. “I want you to know that whatever I see from your past won’t change our friendship, and if it’s bad, I won’t let you read the story.”

  She pulled him to her.

  “Oh, Hunter, you’re going to see some horrible things. Including me with no clothes on.”

  He leaned back and smiled. “Why would that be so horrible? Your bra was pretty damn big. I had no idea. You’re always so covered up.”

  She laughed. “My breasts don’t stand out because everything on me is big. Boobs, butt, stomach, legs, everything. Which is a problem in our fat-shaming culture. If the only t
hings big on me were my boobs, then I’d be hot. But since everything else is big, I’m not.”

  “Well, I think you’re hot.” He looked into her pretty green eyes and then at her beautifully full lips. “I like your smile, and your eyes, and how happy you are, or pretend to be.”

  “I am happy around you. I’m not pretending. I have fun with you. And I don’t want that to change, but I know it’s going to.” She touched his cheek. “You’re going to see some ugly things about me.”

  “Maybe some bad things that others did to you, but not ugly. You’re a beautiful person, Jazz.” He felt so good telling her that.

  She hugged him. “I hope you always think so.”

  “Besides, I’m sure when I remember what happened to me, it won’t be pretty. Otherwise, why wouldn’t I remember? Why would anyone forget happy memories?”

  They continued to hug each other. Hunter could feel the bulge of her breasts against his chest. He had to lean his head forward to put his cheek against hers. He also felt her stomach pushing against his. He moved his hands on her back and felt the bra strap underneath her clothes. He was amazed at how wide it was. His fingers explored.

  Jazz pulled away and gave him a sly smile. “Yes? What are you doing, Hunter?”

  “Your strap is . . . “ He saw Jazz’s face turn red.

  “Is what?”

  Hunter’s eyes moved away from her face as he thought he heard a woman’s voice. Hunter, help me with this, please.

  “Hunter?” asked Jazz. “What’s wrong?”

  In his mind, Hunter saw an open back strap of a black lace bra and white skin underneath. His breathing quickened. He heard the woman’s voice again. C’mon, Baby. Please. She laughed.

  Hunter’s arms dropped from Jazz. He saw his hands reach for the strap to fasten it. His fingers felt the warmth of her back, so much of it exposed. He fastened the clasps. Thank you, Baby. He felt her lips linger on his cheek.

  “Hunter?” Jazz placed her hands on each of his cheeks. “What’s going on?”

  The vision faded, and he saw Jazz’s face in front of his.

  “What happened? Hunter, tell me.”

  He looked up at her, his face pale, his lips trembling. “A woman . . . “

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. She asked me to fasten her bra.”