Unbeautiful

by Jessica Sorensen

  Could my mother have changed cars to watch me?

  Moments later, the car drives away, so I never get to find out.

  My paranoia has already set in, though.

  I sprint back to my apartment. By the time I’m safely inside and the door is dead bolted, I’m veering toward hyperventilation.

  I inhale and exhale deeply, trying to get oxygen into my lungs, but the method has never worked in the past, and it’s not working now. From a previous experience, I know if I don’t pull myself together soon, I’m going to black out. If I ever did lose consciousness when I was under my father’s roof, he’d wake me up by dunking my head into a bathtub full of ice water. As a form of punishment for showing the weakness of anxiety, he’d hold me under until I’d almost drowned.

  “Fuck.” The room starts to spin as I sink to the ground, feeling lightheaded and woozy. “I’m going to fix this,” I gasp. “Somehow…” I trail off as my eyelids drift shut, sending me into a deep, panic-induced slumber.

  Chapter 4

  Secrets, Secrets Everywhere

  Ryler

  I’ve been living in a small, two bedroom apartment for a little over three months now. The only thing I own is the mattress on the floor, some clothes, and a box of old records my father gave me for my nineteenth birthday. That’s all I was allowed to take with me when I packed my shit up in my Challenger and drove to Laramie, Wyoming, per the instructions of Elderman.

  I have a cousin who lives in Laramie so the move wasn’t completely terrible. He’s been letting me crash at his place for the last couple of months while I live a double life, playing the part of both informant and drug trafficker.

  “Are you really serious about this whole summer semester thing?” my cousin Luke Price asks as he enters the living room and plops down on the recliner across from me.

  I nod then sign, “Sorry, man.”

  When I first moved from Vegas, the two of us could barely communicate, but he learned how to read sign language so we can now converse without pen and paper.

  “Most people start school in the fall.” Luke yawns. “Plus, you’re starting that new job down at the writing center, on top of your night job at the bar. You’re starting to become a boring, sulky person. Can’t you find a way to chill the workload a little bit? You deserve it, man, after the shit your dad’s put you through.”

  If he only knew how wrong he is and the truth about why I’m here. Why I’m suddenly getting a second job at the writing center. Why I’m out late at the “bar.” Why I lost my ability to speak four years ago.

  School is the only real thing I have in my life, and the only reason I get to attend is because I insisted I wouldn’t do any more informant work unless Stale and Senford helped me get into the University of Wyoming. I’m so far in to Elderman’s world, they agreed.

  I raise my hands to sign to Luke. “I have to get a head start on school, man. I’m almost twenty-one already, and I’m just starting college. I’m seriously going to be almost thirty before I graduate if I don’t bust my balls to get ahead. You’re one to talk. You take on football, school, and a job, which is equally as much of a workload, so chill with the lectures.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He kicks his boots up on the table. “At least tell me you’re only taking one or two classes. Keep shit light so we can at least do some of the fun stuff we’ve planned. Remember that vow you made with Violet? Live this summer like there’s no tomorrow by going to concerts, camping, and getting out of town.”

  Violet is his girlfriend who lives with us. A lot of the time, I feel like a third wheel. I’d be okay with that if I had other friends, but it’s complicated when I can’t even strike up a conversation with almost every person I meet unless, by some rare miracle, they can read sign language. Plus, my appearance tends to scare a lot of people away, except for people like Elderman’s men. Right now, how they view me is what’s most important in my life.

  I hold up a finger to Luke before signing, “I’m taking Creative Writing. That’s it.”

  Luke cocks his head to the side, confused. “Is that major? Creative Writing?”

  “It’s just a class I took for fun,” I sign. “As an elective. It was the only class I wanted to take that was open by the time I enrolled, and it seemed like it could be fun.”

  “Well, you should major in it, considering how much you write.”

  I tip my hand from side to side before I sign, “I don’t write that much.” It’s amazing, but even hands can lie. But my writing hobby is private, just like every word I pen.

  “Yeah, right. You totally do it, like, every night.” Luke’s girlfriend, Violet, strolls out of the bedroom, fastening her red and black hair into a ponytail. “Don’t think I don’t see you.”

  “You’re giving away all of my secrets.” I wink at her.

  She rolls her eyes as she drops down on Luke’s lap, and his arms instantly wrap around her. “That’s totally not true. You have so many secrets that I’m sure none of us know.”

  Not wanting to talk anymore about me and my secrets, I relax in the sofa and reach for the remote for the stereo to crank up some Smashing Pumpkins. Moments later, the two of them start making out. The music covers up their dirty talk and moaning, but when the room starts to feel stuffy, I grab my notebook and iPod from the coffee table and sneak outside to smoke and write.

  Writing has become my voice. Having lost my own, I started jotting down my thoughts. It lets me get out what I need to say, even if it’s only to a piece of paper.

  The outside air has a little nip to it. I zip up my jacket and settle down into my private spot in the apartment complex, a small area just out of the reach of the fading sunlight nestled between the bushes and below a row of windows. I get situated as I pop my earbuds in and turn on some Johnny Cash. Then I light up a cigarette, recline against the wall, and tip my head up to stare at the window above me, hoping to catch a glimpse of that girl who threw a flurry of torn papers down on my head. Papers that I now have in my dresser drawer, waiting to be taped together and read.

  I hadn’t meant to take them, but then I picked one up and read what was on it—perfection doesn’t exist. I suddenly found myself gathering each one and reading a few of the more legible pieces:

  But then there was my brother.

  My brother, he was different.

  He was the cloud that cast shadows

  and darkness over our home.

  Some say that late at night

  he danced with the devil.

  That under the stars and moon

  he stripped himself bare

  for the whole world to behold.

  They said he was a rebel.

  Trouble.

  Broken.

  He diluted our perfection.

  I swear to God, it was as if the mysterious girl had been writing about me. Who the hell was she? And how could she write such relatable words?

  I’d been more than curious to find out and somehow managed to run into her on the stairway. And, holy shit, did I run into her.

  Emery is gorgeous, to say the least. Absolutely stunning to the point where my imagination instantly conjured up hot, sweaty sex scenes starring her and me. She was also really nervous about wanting the papers back. But before I could give them to her, she took off, probably because my silence freaked her out.

  Now, three days later, I can’t get Emery out of my head. I’ve been stalking her. Not in a creeper sort of way or anything; I’ve just made an effort to study her from my porch when she sits on the grass and writes in a notebook.

  She looks lost in her writing as she guides the pen across the paper, so into her thoughts. There was one day when a guy nearly ran over her while playing catch, and she didn’t so much as glance up, completely lost in whatever world she was creating on those pages.

  I also discovered she likes to run. Every morning, if I time it right, I can see her taking off across the parking lot. Some days, she pauses near the carport for a few moments and
just stares out in the distance, as if she’s drifted into a daydream. I wonder what she’s thinking about when she does it. Who she’s thinking of. Herself or another? Perhaps a boyfriend?

  Okay, maybe I am just a bit creeper stalkerish.

  After staring at her window for a while, I finally give up and press the pen to the paper as nicotine drenches my blood. Some days, I write about my double life. Some days, I write about my father. Today, I feel like writing about my past before I lost my voice.

  I’ve always wondered what it would be like

  to walk out of the shadows

  and into the sunlight.

  I’ve always been one of those people

  the clouds hover over

  and shower with storms.

  It started when I was born.

  My mother had no idea how to hold me.

  Feed me.

  Take care of me.

  She tried,

  but it was hard.

  And so as soon as it began,

  she quickly stopped.

  My father wasn’t the same.

  He didn’t even try.

  He just looked at me with eyes that silently said:

  Why even bother.

  As soon as he met me,

  he lifted his hand

  and waved good-bye.

  Just like that,

  he was gone.

  In the blink of an eye.

  Not too long after that,

  my mother decided that my father was right—

  that it was easier to give up,

  rather than to try.

  So I entered the system

  of abandoned children

  that no one wanted.

  The Land of Shadows was what I called it.

  Always darkness.

  We had only our inner light to survive—

  There was never a hope in sight.

  Almost a new bed every night.

  Getting passed through homes went on for years.

  And the older I got,

  the more my inner light vanished.

  Layer

  by

  layer

  my life was peeled away.

  Until my soul blackened completely.

  But as most tragic stories go,

  My soul burned brightly at first.

  It burned more brightly than the sun.

  I was sixteen at the time.

  I had just been put into a new home.

  There, I met her.

  Aura.

  Aura.

  Aura.

  She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.

  Sixteen-years-old with hair as fiery as the sun,

  skin like lilies.

  eyes like the stars.

  Aura.

  Aura.

  Aura.

  Her name branded my soul.

  And when she looked at me, I felt wanted.

  Maybe even a little bit loved.

  When we spoke, we spun poetry

  under the moon and stars.

  When we touched, we created beauty.

  A beauty that could only be felt.

  Together, we were perfect.

  Together, we made all the imperfections in our lives disappear.

  Or so I thought.

  But then came Ben.

  Ben.

  Ben.

  Ben.

  God, how I hated Ben.

  He was our foster father.

  The person who would ruin our poetry.

  Ruin our beauty.

  Ruin our imperfect perfection.

  Ben was tall.

  And he was strong.

  And he was angry.

  At the world.

  At himself.

  At everyone, really.

  I tried to stay invisible.

  It was the fifth home I’d been in.

  I knew the routine.

  Out of sight and out of mind.

  But it only worked in public,

  out of watchful eyes.

  Behind closed doors was a different story.

  It was where Ben thrived,

  letting his anger control him,

  burying everyone alive.

  His iron fists bruised skin.

  Broke bones.

  Stripped souls.

  Bit

  by

  bit,

  until there was nothing left.

  Rock bottom is where we all arrived.

  Struggling to live.

  Struggling to survive.

  I tried to protect Aura.

  Most days, I took the brunt of the fight.

  I became Ben’s punching bag.

  But that was okay.

  Just as long as Aura was left untouched

  and unscathed.

  It worked for a while.

  But then came that day.

  That God awful day.

  The day when I faced death right in the fists.

  To protect Aura from death,

  I faced my own death head-on.

  But I failed.

  God, did I fail

  as Ben’s iron fist knocked me out.

  When I woke up again, my life was forever changed.

  Was forever darkened by the Land of Shadows.

  Ben had taken almost everything from Aura.

  But even at the brink of death, he wanted more.

  So he stepped forward to take it.

  To finish Aura off.

  I stepped forward to stop it.

  I ran straight into the iron fists.

  Into the darkness.

  Into the nothingness.

  And gave away my inner light.

  I lost everything after that:

  my freedom,

  what Aura and I had,

  my voice.

  I was scarred.

  Forever.

  My hand is trembling by the time I withdraw the pen from the paper. Emotions surface, toxic, potent, threatening to make me lose control and break down. But that would go against the promise I made to myself years ago to keep myself together, to never lose it again, like I did with Ben. Right now, I can’t afford to lose it, not when I’m in the middle of some heavy, dangerous shit that could quite easily lead to me being found dead in a ditch.

  Suddenly, my “personal” phone starts vibrating from inside my pocket. I know it’s Agent Stale before I even dig it out because this is his normal check-in time.

  I glance around, making sure there’s no one around, before opening the incoming message.

  Stale: We just wanted to make sure everything went okay with the writing center and to confirm you’re starting in the next week.

  Me: I told u yesterday when u sprung it on me that I was, just as long as u trust your inside person.

  As usual, Stale gave me little notice before my next move, which was to start a job at the writing center because, apparently, a kid of one of Elderman’s men works there who is also a nark. Somehow, they think the two of us working together will speed up the process of finding Donny Elderman’s warehouse and taking him down.