Behind These Scars

by Lilah Grey

  I pause as the man casts another volley of obscenities at the poor girl.

  “Fucking whore!”

  His bony limbs flail wildly as he tries to break free from the bouncers. There’s no chance; the dude’s a twig compared to them.

  I consider following them outside. If he wanted a chance to prove his manhood, I’d give him one.

  People like him piss me off. They prey on the weak because they’re weak themselves. It makes them feel powerful. It lets them forget how powerless they are.

  Cowards.

  Disgust rises in me as I scan the room and see all the indifferent bystanders going about their business as though nothing’s happened.

  The bartender behind me is holding up the one hundred-dollar bill in front of her, eyeing it. The dancers on the stage are still dancing, bending, and twisting for a few more singles, oblivious to anything other than the men in front of them.

  The music cuts out and then back in after an announcement from the DJ.

  “Put your hands together and say hello to Delilah, everyone.”

  When I finally drag my gaze back to where the girl’s standing, my breath hitches in my chest as I see her face for the first time. Under those tears, under her smeared makeup, I recognize her.

  It’s my stepsister.

  My mind reels as I take her in.

  She looks nothing like the girl I once knew. Chestnut curls, pouty lips, delicate features, and curves that are out of this world. I can’t peel my eyes away from her for a single moment. But I have to. It’s wrong how I’m undressing her in my mind’s eye. Thinking of all the possibilities…

  I clamp my eyes shut in an attempt to force Libby’s image out of my head. But the very images I’m trying to suppress reappear, more vivid than before: thoughts of her naked, my hands and lips exploring every inch of her, tasting her delicious body.

  Fuck, I’m in trouble.

  When I open my eyes a few moments later, I see nothing but an empty space where Libby had been standing.

  2

  Libby

  My doctors told me to keep a daily journal. So did my dad. I know it’s supposed to help me cope with my feelings. My urges. But I can’t. I can’t do it every day because it’s the same thing, day after day. Writing the same entry over and over makes me feel like my life is going nowhere, that I’m stagnating. It’s as though I’m just spinning my wheels while everyone else is headed on to bigger and better things.

  I hate the feeling.

  It’s been hard since dad died. The news of his death came a few days after he passed. I was still a patient at Millwood Psychiatric Hospital and couldn’t go to his funeral.

  He visited me all the time while I was there, and I watched as his health deteriorated with each successive visit. He didn’t know what was wrong, and neither did his doctors.

  I was getting better while he was getting worse. It was heartbreaking, and during this time, Margaret, my stepmother, never visited me. Not once. The healthier I was, the more distant she became.

  Luke never visited either. Not so much as a letter. He probably didn’t even know I was at Millwood, or that he was what drove me there.

  I can feel heat flame up in my scar whenever I think about him. I don’t want to admit it, but even though I hate him for what happened, he’s the only person who holds the cure to my numbness. He’s the only person who can make me feel anything at all.

  My poison. My antidote.

  I have to leave this town. I need to get away. I feel myself slipping into old habits. I feel my body weakening by the day.

  Margaret loves it though. She loves taking care of me when I’m ill, but I can't stand it. The more unhealthy I become—the more torn up and broken I am—the more she cares for me. It's sick; it's twisted; but for some reason, it keeps me here.

  This town… my stepmother… everything here is toxic…

  There are painful memories around every corner, but I still stay. My deepest fear is that I’ll never leave this town. I’ll be a prisoner forever in a cage of my own design.

  One glance at the sea of drunk men, hooting and hollering at Miley as she twirls around on stage, and I know it’s going to be one of those nights.

  My skin tingles as a familiar urge rises to the surface. It’s been happening with more frequency lately, along with the headaches. They stopped while I was at Millwood, but now that I’m back home, they’ve returned.

  I snap the rubber band on my wrist against my skin.

  Relief floods through me, and the urge disappears. I know it won't last; it never does. It's a temporary fix, a band-aid over a wound that will never heal. But it's the only way I know how to cope without turning back to bad habits, without giving in to the urge.

  I’ve been working at Buck Wild as a cocktail waitress for the past month. Once I was released from Millwood, I spent a few weeks trying to find a job in town. It proved more difficult than I anticipated. Without a college education, and with my history well-known by everyone here, Buck Wild was my only option.

  John, the owner of Buck Wild, only cared about tits and ass. If you had them, you had a job. Lucky me, I guess.

  I didn’t want to waitress, but at least I didn’t have to be on stage.

  When I first took the job, I thought I’d be insecure wearing my ‘uniform:’ daisy dukes, a red flannel that hardly covered my torso, cowboy boots and hat.

  I never thought of myself as attractive, but after a few weeks of men gawking at me, as gross and hideous as they were, I found my self-confidence building by the day. I wish it could've been built in a different way, but at this point, I'll take what I can get.

  Some days, though, the leering and catcalling are too much to handle, and I just want to run away and hide.

  Today just so happens to be one of those days.

  I've managed to make it through the first few hours of my shift without killing any of my customers. I've had to deal with more than a couple of obnoxious drunk men and their lewd comments, but at least they're keeping their hands off me.

  However, if I hear another ‘Smile for me, honey,’ or some variation thereof, I’ll lose my shit.

  There’s one customer I’m growing a little concerned about: Wade. He’s a regular here, and most of the girls put up with him because he tips well. I’m not like most of the girls, though.

  Wade's greasy black hair and slimy, yellow-toothed grin make my skin crawl. Not to mention the way he invades my personal space, always leaning in, breathing on me with his putrid breath. It disgusts me. I haven't had a single interaction with him that didn't leave me wanting to scour my skin with hot water and soap afterward.

  And tonight, with more than a pitcher of beer flowing through his veins, he’s been acting like a grade-A asshole.

  Wade snaps at me with his fingers. “Hey, girl!”

  Take a breath… take a breath. He’s not that bad.

  Who am I kidding? Wade's awful. And a few seconds later he proves it to me.

  He whistles, a shrill, high-pitched screech that cuts through the music blaring through the speakers.

  “Get your pretty little ass over here, girl.”

  He leans over in his chair, nearly falling out of it before a buddy of his grabs his arm and pulls him back up. My skin crawls as he licks his lips, letting his gaze rake over my body.

  Why do I put up with this shit?

  That whole poverty thing. Right.

  I finger the rubber band around my wrist and pull it back. Snap!

  Relief washes over me again, but it dissipates as soon as I take my first step toward the table. It’s filled with Wade’s friends, each of them as disgusting as Wade.

  The stench of them, stale cigarettes and body odor, hits me before I make it there. I teeter in front of them, trying hard to ignore the foul mix of smells filling my nose.

  I force a smile. “What can I get you, Wade? Another Bud?”

  He leers at me, not saying a word as his tongue slides over his yellow teeth. I fold my arm
s across my chest, trying to cover what I can. In this skimpy outfit, it’s not much.

  “Say, it’s been what, two weeks since you started here, girl?”

  I hate the way he talks. His voice, how his lips curl, his shitty grammar—everything. I've been here well over a month, and he still thinks my name is ‘Hey, girl. Over here.'

  “A month.” I don’t want to linger any longer than I have to. Get in, get the order, and get out.

  “A month?” He leans back, resting an arm on the back of his chair as he glances at his buddies. “I think we got us a lifer on our hands, boys.”

  Hardly. This was only a placeholder. A means to an end. I didn't know where that end was, but I knew that it wasn't here.

  Wade smacks his lips. “So, lifer,” he says, something more sinister in his tone. “When we gonna see them titties on stage.”

  I feel his beady eyes on my cleavage, burning my skin like a brand, but it’s nothing like the fire that’s beginning to build inside me. I try to ignore it, but it’s getting more difficult by the second.

  Be pleasant. You need this job.

  I wave my hand in the air, signaling to Mark and Greg, our bouncers, that I need assistance. Unfortunately, they’re deep in conversation with their backs turned to me. The nerve endings in my gut twist and tighten into a tangled mess.

  “No need for that, missy,” Wade snarls, understanding my gesture. He motions to the group. “I thought we were all friends here.”

  “You’re drunk, Wade. I think it’s best if you head home.”

  I feel myself growing more nervous and uncomfortable with every passing second. My body begins to tremble and shake as my hands grow cold. Mark and Greg are still talking, and with the music blasting, they probably wouldn’t hear me call out to them.

  “You think I’m gonna listen to what some whore tells me?” Wade’s voice rises along with his temper.

  I’m not about to wait around and see how far he’s willing to take it. I need to get out of here. Now.

  Without another word, I spin on my heels and head toward Mark and Greg, but I barely make it a few steps before Wade snatches my wrist, clamping down hard.

  My wrist throbs, blood pounding in my veins under his forceful grasp.

  “I ain’t done with you yet,” he slurs as his grip tightens around my wrist like a noose.

  3

  Libby

  Is this really happening right now?

  I try to break free from Wade’s grasp, but it’s not working. I’m too weak. He pulls me closer, the stench of tobacco and booze on his breath fills my nose. He gropes my leg, dragging a grimy hand along my thigh before reaching for my ass.

  “That’s it. Be a good little girl for Wade.”

  Tears stream down my cheeks as I try again to shake him off.

  “Wade, stop,” I beg, but my throat is beginning to constrict, and what comes out is barely louder than a whisper.

  My eyes flit around the room, hoping someone notices what's going on over here. But all eyes are either on the stage or the drinks in front of them. Mark and Greg still have their backs to me, completely clueless to what's going on behind them.

  My eyes turn to the other men at the table, sending them a silent plea.

  Do something, please! You can’t just let this happen!

  But it’s wasted on them; they’re enjoying themselves, watching me as they sip their beers like this is a normal occurrence.

  “Go on and get yours,” one of the men slurs as he throws back his beer, slamming the empty mug down on the table a half-second later. He wipes his lips with the back of his hairy hand as he stares at me. “Teach this slut a lesson.”

  “Smile for us, sweetheart,” another one says.

  My skin thrums as adrenaline courses through me. The helplessness I felt earlier gives way to recklessness.

  I snatch Wade’s mug from the table and bring it down hard on the side of his head. It doesn’t shatter, but the force sends him reeling backward, allowing me the chance to move.

  Wade's buddies leap to their feet, sending their mugs and chairs crashing to the floor. I dart sideways toward the front door, but I'm not fast enough. Wade recovers from the blow and launches himself at me. His fingers curl around my wrist, and he yanks me backward.

  I totter for a moment but then regain my balance.

  “You goddamn fucking bitch!” he snarls. “You’ll pay for that.” Rage clouds his eyes as blood streams down his forehead.

  My vision blurs around the edges as blood pounds in my head.

  Not like this.

  “Get the fuck off of her.”

  Mark’s arm slides in between Wade and me, hooking it around his neck and ripping him away. Greg follows right behind him, grabbing Wade’s legs and lifting him off the ground.

  “Fucking drunk idiot,” Greg growls as he and Mark carry him away.

  “Same goes for you guys. Get the fuck out of here,” Mark says, eyeing the group standing around the table. I feel their cold glares as they push by me and follow Mark and Greg outside.

  I can’t move. I can’t even lift my head. This isn’t how I envisioned this night going. Not in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine it could be this bad.

  This isn’t how I envisioned my life going. I thought I’d be a graphic designer, an artist of some sort. I’ve dreamed of becoming one ever since I was young. Back when Luke was still in my life.

  We used to work together. He was always fiddling around with bits of code, creating websites and programs on a second-hand computer his friend gave him. He never cared about how any of it looked.

  “It can look pretty, but if it isn’t functional what’s the point?” he used to tell me.

  I agreed, but that still didn’t stop me from designing various graphics for him, sketching and doodling random ideas that he could use in his projects. It was our ticket out of Milton. Our chance to escape the poverty and addiction that plagued our small town.

  But all that changed overnight. Luke left me behind without so much as a goodbye. It sent me into a tailspin that I still haven’t recovered from. I’m afraid that I might never recover from it.

  I haven’t drawn a single sketch since that night. Painful memories resurface each time I try, and the emotions that well up in those moments are so powerful that I have panic attacks.

  After a few deep breaths, I’m able to move again. I march away from the table and head to the back room.

  As I close the door behind me, I’ve relieved to find the room empty. Silence. I wasn’t in the mood to chat, especially when most of the topics revolved around who gave whom a blowjob, or how wasted someone got the night before. None of it interested me.

  All I want right now is to be alone.

  Random garments—bright and colorful and sheer—are strewn across every surface of the room. The lone garbage can in the corner, which hasn’t been taken out in weeks, is piled high with containers of takeout. Judging by the stench, most of them still contain food.

  I swipe a pile of makeup and clothes off the bench in front of my locker, clearing a place for me to sit. Lipstick and mascara and concealer scatter across the floor, along with an open bottle of glitter.

  Seriously? Who leaves an open bottle of glitter lying around?

  Strippers. Right.

  I let out a groan as I collapse into the small space I’d made for myself. I pull my legs against my body, tucking my knees under my chin, rocking myself back and forth in an attempt to find some semblance of comfort.

  I finger the rubber band around my wrist. I shouldn’t have to keep doing this. I shouldn’t need a crutch. I should be able to face my demons, my past. But here I am, alone in the back room of a strip club in middle-of-nowhere, Texas. My life is one continuous series of train wrecks, each one worse than the last.

  “You okay?”

  I look up and see John staring at me from the doorway. He crosses the room. His snakeskin boots moan with each step while the keys around his belt jingle and clatter agai
nst his hip.

  “Yeah,” I croak. “I’m fine.”

  A lie, of course, but I wasn’t about to rehash what happened. Besides, I’m sure John wasn’t interested in listening to me. Better to smile and lie and pretend that my life wasn’t a continuous cycle of pain and disappointment.

  He runs a hand over his buzzed head. “Good,” he says, ignoring all signs that call me on my lie. “I’m going to need you on stage tonight.”

  “Excuse me?” I blurt almost instantly.

  That's odd. I thought Punk'd had been canceled, but apparently, I'm mistaken. For some reason, Ashton Kutcher has decided to come out of retirement for the express purpose of punking me. Okay, the prank was super funny, but you can come out now. Please?

  John lowers himself into a crouch, bowing his head so I can’t see his face. He sighs and then looks up at me. “You knew this would happen eventually, Lizzy.”

  “It’s Libby…”

  How hard is it to get someone’s name right around here?

  He narrows his eyes but then continues. “Amber and Ginger are no-shows, and there’s no one else here for me to call on. I need you to clean yourself up and get out there.” He scans me up and down as though he were evaluating the fit and finish of a car. “You’re a complete mess.”

  Did he seriously just say that?

  And in a single moment, something snaps, and for once it isn’t the rubber band against my wrist. It’s something inside me, something deep and dark and raw. I’ve had enough of this place, of all the shit I’ve endured for a paycheck.

  No more.

  “Fuck you.”

  The gnawing anxiety in my chest disappears instantly, replaced with an eery composure I’ve never felt before. Control. Power. Something. Whatever it is, it feels amazing.

  John stares at me blankly as I rise and turn around to open my locker and collect my things.