CUT HERE (The Cut Series Book 1)

by Azzurra Nox

  She pulled a pair of sunglasses from her blazer pocket, putting them on. Staring up the sun she wondered why life couldn’t always feel like this. Why couldn’t she always feel this bliss. Instead, it was momentary. It never lasted long before the sense of loss entered her heart leaving her feeling utterly drained like a leech that sucks the life-force out of a hot blooded creature. But she didn’t want to ponder on that. They had an afternoon ahead of them and for once she wanted to focus on having fun. For once she wanted to break the rules. How does it feel to be a bad girl? Stupendous, she thought.

  Chapter Sixteen

  They were both seated in a booth of a café, drinking lattes and working on their homework when Jon noticed Dior in company of Bailey and Bethany. He couldn’t hide his cringing when he noticed them approaching the café. Lena seemed to notice because she asked what was wrong to only cast her eyes in the direction of the girls and understood the grimace.

  “I hope they don’t come by here,” he whispered, trying to look engrossed in answering the History questions on a worksheet that dealt with the French Revolution. But he had no such luck. Dior’s voice was the first thing he heard before he noticed she was standing near their table.

  “Oh, no. Not The Honeys,” Jon heard Lena groan under her breath.

  “Hi Jon, I was wondering if you’re going to the Valentine’s Day dance,” her voice had a sugar tone and she was twirling a lock of her perfectly glossed hair around a finger. He wondered if she thought she was being sexy. Probably. She was failing miserably.

  “I am,” he quickly stated on a whim, “I’m going with Lena.”

  Lena gave him a look as if to say, What are you talking about? But she went along with his lie anyway, adding, “Yes, we are. Why the interest, Dior?”

  Taken by surprise by that fact, Jon could see that she was trying to keep her suave demeanor by saying nonchalantly, “I’m in charge of the music, what band would you like to see perform at the dance?”

  “If you know of a way to get the Pretty Reckless here, you’d really impress me,” Jon replied, knowing that it would be an impossible feat for her to accomplish.

  Dior looked taken aback but then recuperated and throwing her head back she took out a notepad and pen writing down, “The Pretty Reckless? No problem. Maybe my papa can make a few phone calls, that is, if enough people vote for them.”

  “We were rather thinking about getting John Mayer, he’s so dreamy,” Bailey interjected with a swooning sigh and a look in her eyes that indicated how much she’d appreciate the musician’s appearance at the dance.

  “John Mayer?” Lena said with a snort. “Count me in for The Pretty Reckless too.”

  “What happened to you and Amelia?” Bethany interrupted, stepping closer to Jon. “I’ve seen her walking around with the new guy. Weren’t you two dating?”

  “We broke up. She’s free to walk around with whomever she wishes,” he said getting annoyed by the three girls, and tried to look occupied by his homework, shuffling through the pages of the history book.

  “I guess we’ll go we’re very busy,” Dior told them understanding that Jon wasn’t going to say much more.

  Lena looked relieved at their departure, “I thought they’d never leave! By the way,” she leaned forward on the table closer to Jon, “They said Milly is seeing a new student? Who is he?”

  He penned a response to one of the history questions on the worksheet, and then flipped through a few more pages before responding, “Oh yeah…I saw him today. Some punk named Michael.”

  “Michael?!” her voice rose an octave and she almost jumped out of her seat in excitement. He didn’t understand her reaction. “Why are you so interested? You know him?”

  “How’s he look like?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not like I care. I didn’t look at him that well. But I’m sure Father Bob will have a field day with his long hair.”

  “He has long hair?!”

  “Yes. What’s the big deal?”

  “Oh my gosh….it’s him!”

  Not understanding why Lena was acting so peculiar, Jon tried to reason with her. “Slow down, a second. What’s the big deal? And what the hell are you talking about? You know this dude?”

  “Yeah…he’s the one who saved me!” Her cheeks flushed from the revelation and yet Jon didn’t readily grasp at what she was getting at. She must’ve seen his questioning look and furrowed eyebrows and continued, “Remember when I told you about that night that I fell off the bridge?” He nodded so that she could go on with her explanation, “Well, that night I met a guy named Michael. I don’t know how he did it, but he saved me.”

  He leaned back, shaking his head trying to stifle an amused chuckle. “You seriously think he saved you? I mean, let’s put things into perspective, if you fell from that bridge it means that he must’ve been standing in the river below.”

  “It’s very possible, and you know it. That river is barely filled with water unless it rains.”

  He didn’t want to admit that she was right. Especially since the initial feeling of dread he had felt earlier that morning when he realized that the M could stand for Michael was now a blatant truth.

  “So he saved you?”

  “Yes.”

  He detested the way in which she said that. The slight inflection on the ‘s’ like she was swooning. Anger rose up his throat, gripping his windpipe furiously and he coughed, blindly reaching out for the latte to wash down the acrid taste in his mouth the whole revelation was giving him. He couldn’t think straight. Head dizzy and blurring eyesight. The words in the textbook seemed to com-bust and scatter like ants leaving the page blank. He shut his eyes tight. His head throbbed in frustration. This couldn’t be happening.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he opened his eyes but his vision was still cloudy. Lena’s face came into view and it looked like a smudge charcoal reproduction. “I’ve gotta go,” he suddenly stated, standing up. The movement was so brisk that his chair fell back as he closed the history book and threw it in his backpack along with the notebook and worksheet he had been busy completing.

  “What’s the rush?” she stood up too, her eyes looked like two dark wells that he could easily and pleasantly drown in.

  “I just remembered that I have to run an errand for my mom, no big deal but I’ve gotta jet. I’ll see you around, okay?” he closed up the backpack in a hurry, not making sure if it was fully closed before he slipped it over his shoulder using only one strap.

  “What about the dance? It was a joke, yeah?”

  “Uh…hey, we could go, yeah..why not? Let’s do it,” he said trying to keep his voice calm but he could hear the nerves cracking it. “I’ll call you later. I just have to go right now,” he walked backwards, crashing into a customer walking in, and then headed for the door, not noticing that he had dropped something on his way out. He was too intent on getting out of there. Away from Lena. He needed the fresh air. The vise-like grip around his windpipe seemed to dissolve outside, and slipping his Ray Bans over his eyes, he tried to clear his thoughts of everything that had happened that day. Walking down the street to his parked car, a small smile formed on his face when he recalled how Lena had inquired about the dance before walking out. They had a date. A school dance nonetheless. He had always been against them, but now the idea of being able to hold her pressed close to him during a slow dance didn’t seem so bad at all. But what about Milly? When the thought hit him, his stomach hurt like he had just been punched in the gut. He knew that she’d feel awful seeing him there with Lena, but at the same time he had revealed his feelings for Lena to her.

  Sometimes he found himself missing Amelia. Especially at night, whenever he’d wake up from one of his nightmares. The first thing he wanted to do each time was to call her. Hear her comforting voice. She’d talk about music. The way she was so passionate about lyrics and beats was incredible. It was almost comparable to his passion for photography. He unlocked the car, getting in
. His head was troubled with thoughts of Milly. A part of him missed her. Missed the connection they had built in those eight months. They had been partners in crime. Best friends with benefits.

  He turned the ignition on, and tried to let his mind clear from everything that troubled him. It was getting warmer, and alone, he was able to roll up the sleeves of his shirt. Both the inside of his arms were scattered with tiny circular scars. His constant burning with cigarettes to dull the pain was a manifestation of an inner malaise that he was unable to fully control. That was his only way to deal with it. Nobody knew of his scars except for Milly. It was one of the first things he had shown her a few weeks into their relationship.

  It was an idle Tuesday afternoon, his mother was at work and they were alone in his room. He had been taking photos of her. She was wrapped up in a silk shawl, her shoulders bare and red curls caressing the pale skin. He was convinced that he had captured her vulnerability in the poses. Amelia reading an Anne Sexton poetry book, or her looking out of a window, eyes glancing out, her profile cast in shadows from the afternoon sun against the dark curtains. At one point she had taken the camera from him and told him to bare his soul. He removed his shirt. Showed her the scars. Instead of being repulsed she kissed them and told him he was beautiful. They had sex for the first time that afternoon, and in a way he had grown closer to her even if he tried to keep himself as detached as possible to all the women in his life. He had almost been tempted to tell her about Robert. But he chickened out. He just couldn’t. It was something too major to acknowledge to someone else. When he left New York he vowed that he’d never mention Robert to anyone. So determined to focus on his new life that he even camouflaged his New York accent. His real accent only showed through when he was tired or he got comfortable enough with someone that he didn’t realize he was slipping. It was difficult to keep up the facade. There were moments he wished he could confide in someone. But he couldn’t. The guilt marked his silence. If only he hadn’t lost sight of him that day. And yet he hoped, if only someday I could see my brother again. A folly desire but one that he hadn’t yet completely dismissed as never happening. He was certain his mother felt the same. They had left New York to leave Robert behind, but the truth was New York never left them, and nor did Robert. 2, 413 miles apart and yet everything still felt too close. Just like the burns that never faded from his skin.

  Chapter Seventeen

  From the outside Sydney Stam’s life was deemed as perfection. Daughter of a 1970’s sex symbol, Bridget Stam, who had been in a number of films in her youth and now turned producer, both lived in a mansion in Malibu. Like her mom, Sydney had tumbling golden blonde curls and bee-stung lips that looked even more sensuous with a hint of gloss. Her profile was perfect, not even an artist would’ve been able to create one so beautiful. Sydney was destined to be beautiful with the genes she had been bestowed, but fate had been cruel to her, as fate sometimes is to the ones who seem the luckiest. Her gorgeous features were disturbingly marred by a deep black birthmark that covered from her brow bone down to her cheek on the right side of her face. She had undergone various laser surgeries but nothing seemed to remove the birthmark. It was pigmented and there was little hope for it ever being cured. The fact that it was black made it hard for her to disguise with makeup, especially when the rest of her skin was alabaster white. Her seemingly perfect existence crippled by this defect. Sydney couldn’t bear to look in the mirror, except for when she turned to her left side, and then she’d notice her breath-taking profile only to find herself in fits of sobs in a matter of seconds when she’d turn around and her right side was shadowed in pitch black, hiding her perfection like a grey storm cloud refusing to let the sun shine with its ominous presence.

  She had her fringe cut to partially hide the birthmark and what her hair didn’t mask a large black felt flower worn on her head with a black veil coming down in front of her face covered the rest. From afar when she walked heads would turn because they’d think they were encountering a goddess, but the moment they got up close and would see her imperfection she’d notice looks of contempt and pity wash over their faces like a tidal wave. That hurt the most. Those looks of compassion gashed deeper wounds in her than the cruel remarks she’d get from peers at school. She’d rather have the opportunity to lash back rather than feel weak because of someone’s sympathy for her. No one could ever possibly understand her malaise. Being the daughter of a sex symbol was difficult enough but when you were also a tainted beauty this only tripled the sense of worthlessness that invaded her gut and held her captive. Her mother never made her feel ugly growing up. When she was younger, she had bought Sydney her first veil, comparing her to a little bride. She would call her, “my little veiled princess.” That term used to make her smile. Now the term only brought on bounds of shame, knowing that the reason her mother had veiled her was so that people wouldn’t stare.

  School was tough for a girl who should’ve been adored. Had she not had the birthmark, she could’ve easily surpassed Dior in male attention. But misfortune wanted that she must be on the same level as Hope Peters and Connor Reynolds, St. Lucy’s infamous outcasts. Although Sydney liked Connor, with his trench coat, black nail varnish, and black eyeliner rimming his eyes, he was like a young Robert Smith minus the crazy coif the musician sported. Father Bob wasn’t keen on Connor wearing a black leather trench coat over his school uniform and combat boots but there was nothing in the school handbook that stated he couldn’t and Connor knew that and abused the liberty.

  She sighed as she looked down at the red dress she held in her hands. It was made of silk and chiffon. Rhinestone spaghetti straps and a low-cut back gave the dress a sensual twist. Her mother had picked it for her to wear at the Valentine’s dance. Only now she wasn’t sure whether she was going to attend or not because she lacked a date. A part of her wanted to attend. She desired so much to have a guy hold her in his arms during a slow dance. She closed her eyes a moment. Sydney was certain she could hear the music in her head, she swayed to the imaginary notes and stopped only when she noticed she had knocked down the body powder from the bathroom counter, scattering it on the floor in a loud crash.

  “Crap,” she murmured, setting the dress on a nearby stool and trying to collect the powder from the floor. Her mother would be upset if she saw the Chanel No. 5 powder ruined. She scraped at the pink dust with her hands, throwing it in the toilet. When she was done she looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her hand covered the side of her face with the birthmark, and she smiled. She was beautiful. “I’m beautiful,” she whispered to herself as though repeating the thought would convince her that indeed she was. Her hand reached out for her mobile. She texted Connor asking him if he was free for the night, then decided to take a shower, she didn’t want to be late to the dance. Or at least if she was going to be late, she would be fashionably late as her mother always was at premieres.

  When she got out of the shower she noticed that Connor had texted her back. He said he was busy, that she should’ve asked him prior and he would’ve been happy to take her. Tears welled up in her eyes. She closed them trying to keep her composure. She was unaware of the sound of flapping wings outside. Or if she was, she just thought it was one of the many crows that flew by their gardens. A lucid thought hit her. So what if she didn’t have a date? She would go to the dance anyway. Washing her face, the thought became more and more a determined goal. She had no reason to shrink away. Sydney yearned to live. She desired so much to be kissed. Seventeen and she had never been kissed. Not that she blamed anyone. You had to be pretty up close to someone for a kiss, and she could see why boys wouldn’t want to have to face her defect from that close proximity.

  After an hour she walked down the stairs to the foyer in search for the driver so that he could take her to the dance. She looked stunning from afar. Her dress fit her perfectly and covered the other parts on her body where the birthmark was present. Her legs had black splotches running down the sides that the only way to con
ceal them was to use black tights when wearing dresses. For gym, she always preferred to wear loose sports pants rather than the mandatory shorts. The teacher didn’t pressure her to wear them. She knew why she didn’t. Sydney had confessed to Ms. Sullivan why she was always disobeying the dress code at school whether it was for gym or their uniform. She showed her the birthmarks and pleaded to her to let her wear the pants and to allow her to wear the black tights when it came to the school uniform, because knee high socks wouldn’t cover the pigmentation. The teacher didn’t even have to be begged that much before giving in, understanding her situation. Sydney hated her. She knew she gave in because she pitied her. They all did. They all knew that no man would ever touch her because of this.

  For the event, she had decided to copy a pin-up makeup look. Thick black eyeliner and red lips. Her hair was partially up, her fringe swept to the side hiding the right side of her face, a red hair ornament strategically placed nearby with a little black veil much like what one would see 1930’s silent stars or brides wear. She caught sight of her reflection in a mirror and smiled. From that angle she could almost say to herself that she looked stunning. In some ways she was. If only people could forgive those dark shadows that swallowed parts of her.

  The night had a slight chill to it when she stepped out of the Mercedes. She pulled the chiffon shawl tight around her bare shoulders. Nerves seemed to bundle her stomach in knots. She could hear Lady Gaga’s music pouring from the ballroom area the school used for these events.

  “When should I pass by to pick you up?” the driver asked before he drove away.

  “How about in two hours?” The dance lasted longer than that but she wasn’t sure if she could manage to stay there for longer than two hours, she almost wanted to call him back and tell him to make it one but didn’t. She took a deep breath before entering the building. For a moment she felt as though she had stepped into a surreal setting. The fog and psychedelic lights flashed as the DJ stood behind the console. Decorations were made to appear as though it were Verona, as they took inspiration from William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, complete with the balcony where the couples could take their photos. Her eyes surveyed the room in a critical manner. The lightening was perfect. Not too bright. The darker a place was, the better off she was for people not to readily notice her defect. Although by now everyone at school knew about it.