Someone To Kiss My Scars: A Teen Thriller

by Brooke Skipstone

  “Micah. Please, that hurts!”

  “Worthless bitch!” He slapped her again.

  “I’m sorry, Micah. I can’t do it. I’m sorry.” She wept.

  Jazz trembled. She knew what she would say to him, but he had to leave her mother’s room. If he slapped her again, she would go to the door and tell him the faucet broke—or something.

  She waited and heard nothing. She was about to approach their door when Micah burst out and stomped into the kitchen. He poured vodka and orange juice into a glass and chugged half of it.

  Jazz took a few steps forward until she knew he could see her.

  He leered when he saw her beckon him. His tongue dragging across his teeth, he slunk drunkenly toward her.

  “What you want, Jazzy?”

  “I’ll give you what you want if you stopping hitting Mom.”

  His grin spread wide as he nodded his head and looked down her body.

  “Is that the excuse you want to give knowing you’ve wanted me all along?”

  He drained his glass.

  “You have to promise not to hit her anymore. The only reason you’re hitting her is because she won’t screw you. The baby’s due in a few days. Leave her alone. Let her have the baby. And you can . . .”

  Jazz closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

  Micah started unbuttoning her shirt. “And I can do what?”

  “I’ll lie down and let you do it.” She grabbed his hands. “Deal?”

  “Sure, Jazzy. Deal.” She let go of his hands, which continued unbuttoning her shirt. “I’ve been looking forward to doing this for a long time.”

  He took off her shirt. Jazz turned around and went to her bedroom where she removed the rest of her clothes. She lay down and watched Micah leer at her as he removed his clothes.

  Hunter grabbed his head and pulled. He felt like it would explode with all the pain inside. But his anger boiled in his gut. This shouldn’t happen. Ever. Again.

  Micah climbed on top of her.

  “Please don’t hurt me, Micah.” Her insides seemed to drop into a hole, spiraling slowly.

  “I would never hurt you, Jazzy.”

  A few seconds later, Jazz tried to stifle her screams.

  Other scenes flashed into Hunter’s brain. More cuts along her ankles, more late night visits from Micah, more drinking.

  Three days after the first rape, Jazz remembered her PawPaw kept a pistol in a dresser drawer in his bedroom. She had found it two years ago when she went hunting for money in her grandparents’ house. At the time, Mom had almost nothing left and wouldn’t ask her parents for cash. Jazz found a few dollars here and there, but the pistol was her biggest find. She thought about stealing it and letting her mother pawn it, but decided to leave it. Soon after, Mom met Micah, and she and Jazz moved out.

  Jazz took off on her bike to visit her grandparents with a small pack and a bottle of water. They were surprised to see her and begged for information about their daughter and the baby. Jazz slipped out of the kitchen while her grandparents prepared a late lunch and darted into their bedroom. She found the gun and stuffed it into her pack. In a panic, afraid of being discovered or delayed, she ran outside, jumped on her bike, and raced back home. She hid the gun under her mattress and swore to herself she’d kill him if he hurt Mom again.

  More days passed and Claire still had not given birth to her daughter. Micah mumbled continually that their deal had not covered all this extra time. That Jazz needed to satisfy him again.

  She didn’t expect him to barge in that night, drunk, wearing nothing but boxers. He ripped off the covers and told her to remove her clothes.

  She couldn’t get the gun.

  Her stomach rolled, and bile oozed up her throat.

  She let him do it again while trying so hard to keep her screams behind her gritted teeth. He laughed at her and called her a drama queen.

  She became a shell of herself, numb, with eyes that didn’t see the world, just the loop of Micah grunting on top of her, ripping her insides.

  Even repeated cuts to her legs wouldn’t revive her.

  Two nights later, she found herself staring at a butcher knife, blinking back at her as she rocked the edge on her wrist under the lamplight in her room.

  Just a simple pull on the handle would do it.

  She began to smile and count: one, two, three, four, five, slice. She dragged the blade lightly.

  Blood came in a fast trickle. The edge was sharp. But the pain was nothing.

  Harder next time. Deeper.

  One, two, three, four . . .

  Her mother screamed.

  Jazz jerked her head up.

  “Micah! Don’t!”

  She lurched off her bed and pulled the gun from under the mattress and put it under her pillow.

  Her mother yelled again.

  Jazz snuck down the hall.

  The memory stopped. Hunter knew what happened next, but Jazz didn’t remember.

  His insides twisted and lurched, filling his throat with a suffocating wail. He grabbed his head as he fell to the floor, weeping.

  “Hunter!” Jazz screamed.

  His cries filled his head, his entire world, a guttural howl embodying all her pain. “Jazz! Jazz!” He pounded the floor until he felt hands grasping his arms.

  “Hunter! I’m here. I’ll hold you.”

  She pulled him into her, rocking him.

  “I’ll always hold you, Hunter. I’ll never let you go.”

  Several minutes later he opened his eyes and felt her hand pushing through his wet hair. He buried his head into her chest, whimpering. “How could you survive that?”

  “Survive what?” She held his face in front of hers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Hunter. You took it all away.”

  She kissed his forehead, then his eyes. “I’m free, Hunter.” She kissed one cheek. “I can breathe because of you.” She kissed the other.

  “I can love because of you.” She kissed his lips.

  Hunter felt her tongue push into his mouth, felt the heat of her breath, and tasted the sweet elixir of her spirit. At that moment he disconnected from her memories screaming in his brain and relaxed in her arms.

  He felt her fingers tracing every line and curve of his face as she gazed at him in wonder.

  “Thank you, Hunter. I wish I could do the same for you.”

  After a few minutes of rest, Hunter stood. “How many other girls suffer like you did and continue to suffer? And how can no one know about it? Do the police ever catch the shits who do this? And if so, why don’t we hear about it?”

  “We don’t because the kids are minors. Their names are protected, as well as the details of what happened to them.”

  “These stories need to get out somehow. Including mine. If people knew the truth, they’d do something. I can’t believe they wouldn’t.”

  He took a few steps and stopped. “Why was my mother able to get away with seducing me? Because she was the mother with total control over her kids. We were homeschooled, supposedly. Maybe we had no playmates, so who would we talk to? And even if we had friends, would we tell anyone else, or be too embarrassed to say anything?”

  He paced around the room. “How many kids cut themselves without their parents knowing about it? Must be thousands. Who knows about Tatiana’s purging?”

  Jazz stood. “No one but us, as far as I know, though now it seems obvious.” She gave him a hug. “Does getting angry help you cope with the memories?”

  “Yes. Somehow, I need to find a way to fight back.” He shook his head, every muscle taut. “Besides, every time I take a memory from someone else, I see more of my past. The only way I’ll know the truth about my mother is if I do this.”

  Someone knocked on the front door.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Hunter looked at Jazz questioningly. Surely Eric wouldn’t have returned so quickly. “Who?”

  “It must
be Tatiana. I told her to come by at lunch. You want me to ask her to come by after school?”

  “No, let her in. I’ll go put on my shirt.”

  Jazz touched the scars on his chest. “I remember doing most of my cuts, but I don’t remember why I started. I think I’m more ashamed of them now.”

  Hunter kissed a few scars on her shoulders. “I saw you make your first cuts. No one had more reason. Most in your situation would have killed themselves or blanked out entirely. They signify your strength, not your weakness.”

  Jazz hugged him quickly. “Thank you. Maybe you should take a break?”

  “No!” He knew he’d said this too loud. “I’m sorry, Jazz, but I can do this. You endured it. All I have to do is watch. I don’t want to stop.”

  She held his head. “OK. I’ll let her in.”

  Hunter went back to her bedroom and stood before her mirror examining his scars. They seemed larger, more obvious. How had he ever thought they came from a bike accident? Why had he cut himself? When? What was the pain so heavy in his mind that he had to cover it with a blade? His own guilt at succumbing to his mother’s advances or something else?

  He pulled on a t-shirt and went to the kitchen where he found Tatiana hugging Jazz.

  “You always seemed so happy,” Tatiana said through her tears.

  “So did you.” Jazz held Tatiana’s shoulders. “Does anyone else know about your purging?”

  “I don’t know. I thought it would be obvious. When no one said anything, I thought they just didn’t care.” Tatiana looked at Hunter. “Jazz said you could help me.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Will either of you tell anyone?”

  “We won’t even tell you,” said Hunter. “Once I see your memory, you won’t remember you had it.”

  Tatiana lowered her large brown eyes. “Hunter . . . you’re going to see . . . to see my body . . . I’m so sorry. I’m nervous.”

  “I understand. But when we’re done, you won’t remember that I saw it. Please don’t worry.”

  Jazz held Tatiana’s arm and led her into the living room. “Sit down here.” Tatiana sat on the sofa. “You’re going to have to relive the event. It will be painful at the beginning, but it should be the last time you’ll have to think about it.”

  Hunter could have collapsed in Jazz’s bed and curled into a ball, he felt so drained and spent, but his anger gave him strength. Why should this sweet girl suffer so much that she made herself puke every day? No one was trying to help her, so he would. He opened his computer lid then looked at Tatiana.

  She stared back at him, wrinkling her brows. “So, let me get this straight. I’ll think about what happened to me, and then what will happen?”

  “I’ll see what you’re thinking,” said Hunter.

  “How?”

  Jazz sat next to her. “We don’t know how it works yet, but what you see in your head, he’ll see in his.”

  Tatiana shook her head. “How’s that even possible? Is it magic?”

  “No magic,” said Jazz. “Science. Your memories don’t stay in your mind. They’re like a halo around you, linked to your brain. When you recall an event, the memory floods your brain, stimulating all the neurons that were active when you formed the memory. Except this time Hunter hijacks the memory.”

  Her eyes widened at Hunter. “Then what?”

  Jazz held her hand. “He writes what he sees, like he’s living the memory.”

  “Like he’s me?” She turned her face toward Jazz.

  “Sort of.”

  “Will it hurt?”

  “I felt a little dizzy when he took mine.”

  “Was it bad?”

  Jazz smiled. “He says it was, but I have no idea because I don’t remember a thing.” Jazz touched her cheek. “Trust us, Tatiana. You’ll feel so much better.”

  Tatiana lowered her head. “Will it hurt you, Hunter?”

  “Not as much as the event hurt you. Don’t worry about me. I want to do this.”

  Jazz smiled. “He sweats a lot afterward.” Jazz squeezed her hand. “You ready?”

  “Jazz, can you stay here with me?” Tatiana asked.

  “Sure.”

  Tatiana pulled Jazz’s hand to her chest and began breathing quickly.

  Hunter heard pounding in the darkness. He felt hands all over him. He and his mother were naked, pressed together.

  More pounding. “Mom! Where’s Hunter?” Frankie’s voice. He was knocking on the bedroom door.

  Hunter whispered, “Mom. Frankie’s at the door.” He had to push her off of him before he ran into the bathroom.

  “Mom!” Frankie pounded the door.

  “What is it Frankie?”

  From the bathroom, Hunter saw light shoot into the room.

  “Where’s Hunter?”

  “Jesus, close the door. I don’t know. Go back to sleep, Frankie. I’m sure Hunter will be back in bed in just a little while.”

  The light disappeared. Hunter crept back into the bedroom, trying to find his clothes.

  “Come back to bed, Hunter.”

  “I should go.”

  “Five minutes. Just five minutes.”

  Hunter pulled on his clothes. “I’ll come back later.”

  He put his ear to the door and listened. Hearing nothing, he opened the door slowly, peeking through the opening. The hall was empty. He slipped out of the room and saw light at the end of the hall. He moved toward it.

  A younger Tatiana rode her bike in the park toward the river. She emerged from the trees and turned left where the road looped by some campsites. She was supposed to meet Molly, but her friend had been grounded. Tatiana was bored at home, so she took off by herself. She rode to the end of the loop, thinking it would be empty, then noticed a white van parked on the side of the road. She slowed and saw a man asleep in the driver’s seat, so she decided to drive past him.

  Just as she drew even with the front door, she heard the man groan. She looked over and saw him clutch his chest, which bucked up and down. He grunted then let out, “Ahhhh! Oh, God. It hurts!”

  He stopped suddenly and slumped into his seat.

  Tatiana braked. “Mister? Are you OK?”

  The man moaned. “Help me.”

  She got off her bike and approached his door.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Think I’m having . . .”

  His voice trailed off.

  She got closer. “What’d you say?”

  He clutched his chest and groaned. She moved closer. “Do you need help?”

  She was three feet from his door when he pushed a pistol out his window and cocked the hammer.

  Tatiana shuddered. She looked at the gun barrel then at his face. Her stomach turned cold, and she forgot to breathe.

  “Don’t move or scream or I’ll shoot your pretty little face. Got it?”

  Tatiana gasped and nodded her head. Her lips curled back from her teeth, and she felt sweat drip inside her clothes.

  His hair was pulled into a ponytail. His face was grizzled, and his thick beard hung beneath his jaw hiding his neck. He sneered, revealing a silver tooth in his front teeth. He opened the door and climbed out of his seat, pointing the barrel at her face.

  Tatiana gasped for air in spasms. “Please. Don’t hurt me.”

  He moved closer. “Anyone else with you?”

  “No.” Maybe she should have said yes. “Yes. My family is just on the other side of the trees.”

  He leered at her. “Really?” He reached out his left hand and touched her breast.

  She backed away and covered her chest with her arms.

  He moved to her and pushed the barrel into her neck. “I didn’t say you could move.” He grabbed her wrist. “Get inside the van.”

  “Please!” Tears flooded out of her eyes. She didn’t want to die.

  He slapped her face. “Shut up! Get in the van.”

  She collapsed
onto her knees. He grabbed her hair and yanked her up. She cried out.

  He pulled her face close to his. “You fight me, and I’ll cut you up. You’ll have scars all over your face. Be nice, and I won’t hurt you. Got it?”

  She nodded. He pulled her toward the side door, holding her hair and jamming the gun into her ribs.

  “Open the door.”

  Every muscle shook. She reached out for the handle but couldn’t grab it.

  “I said open it.”

  She pulled the handle with both hands. The door slid open, and he pushed her inside.

  The area behind the front seats was open, the floor covered with a thin mattress. He slammed the door shut, plunging them into darkness.

  The air inside was thick with the stench of cigarettes, sweat, and beer. He reached up and pulled a string, turning on a light.

  Tatiana’s eyes darted frantically around her. A curtain separated them from the front, and all the other windows were covered.

  Tatiana couldn’t breathe. Every nerve was on fire as she trembled. He would rape her and kill her. She couldn’t stop trembling.

  He pulled out a hunting knife and grabbed a roll of duct tape. After he cut off a six-inch piece, he said, “Lean forward.”

  “I can barely breathe. Please don’t cover my mouth. Please. I won’t yell. I won’t yell.”

  He grinned. “OK, but if you make any sound at all, I’ll cut your face.” He moved the blade to her cheek. “Such a pretty face. Be a shame if it were covered in scars.”

  She stared at the blade, whimpering, then at his face. “I won’t. I promise.”

  “Lie down,” he growled.

  Her eyes widened.

  He moved the blade closer. “Lie down.”

  She scooted her legs toward him and then leaned back on her elbows.

  “All the way down. And stretch out your arms.”

  Her chest heaved as she moved her arms away from her body. He moved up to each arm, lifting two heavy, round weights onto each forearm.

  She couldn’t move her arms, which started to tingle as her blood was cut off.

  “Let’s see what we got here.”

  He lifted her shirt away from her stomach and slipped the knife underneath, blade up, then cut the buttons.