Beautifully Scarred

by H. P. Davenport

  “Jules…” His voice breaks.

  I hold my hand up, stopping him from speaking. I need to get this out before I walk away from him. This time I will do it voluntarily, not forcibly.

  “I hated myself for years.” My teeth clench. “I wanted to die. Each time I cut, I would push a little harder, hoping I would hit an artery and bleed out, hoping no one would find me in time.”

  He interrupted me vehemently. “You tried to kill yourself?” Brennan’s face is a glowering mask of rage.

  Visions of the last time I cut myself haunts me to this day.

  I leaned my head against the beige tiled wall of my bathroom as the blade slid across my left wrist. Blood trickled out at first, then I pushed a little harder, and the cut became deeper, which caused more damage and more blood. I made a deep cut. I’d cut my left wrist before, but never this deep, just enough to break the skin, to experience the pain. Anything was better than the numbness.

  I’d cut myself for years. Scars marked various parts of my body. My thighs, my ankles, my upper arms, my wrists, places people can’t see. Places I could easily conceal.

  My left hand fell to the floor as I watched the blood drip onto the white ceramic floor.

  In that moment, I was paralyzed. I’d lost my way. I knew I cut myself deep, and I hoped the pain ended. Nothing seemed to take away my pain, not permanently. Maybe in death, the numbness would stop. I was scared to live, yet once I saw all the blood, I was scared to die.

  Why did my mom leave me when I was born? Was I not loveable even as a child? Why did Peg and Don hate me? Why did I hate myself? These were the questions running through my head.

  The questions didn’t stop. Will the pain inside me subside? Will the sadness go away?

  Usually, relief came when I cut. This time, relief never came. It was non-existent. Shame appeared in its place. My wrist throbbed as I watched myself bleed out.

  I wanted the pain the stop. I hated being alone. Cutting was the only way for me to relieve some of the pain. Each time I self-harmed, I had another wound to symbolize my emotional pain.

  There was so much blood on the floor. I fell in and out of consciousness before I blacked out. I didn’t know how long I laid on the floor, bleeding out before Charles and Maureen found me. I woke to my body being shaken as Maureen screamed, “Oh my God. Juliette. Why? Charles, call 911!”

  Brennan’s face went grim. “Jules,” he says softly. “I’m so sorry.” His eyes flash with sorrow as he takes me in.

  My hands cover my ears. “Stop!” I scream. “You wanted to know!” I yell at him.

  “I don’t want your goddamn pity.” Pointing my finger at him. “Fuck you, Brennan.”

  He shoves both hands through his hair. His expression shifts from bewilderment to agony.

  “I wanted to die that day. You don’t feel anything in death. Everything stops. Death is much easier than living hating yourself. Charles and Maureen’s life would have been much easier without me. At least that’s what I would tell myself. I never stopped and thought of the ramifications of what I was doing to myself and how it would affect them.”

  The memory is vivid. That was the last time I cut myself. The look in Maureen’s eyes is one I will never forget. She thought she lost me. She thought I was dead. I could never put her through that again.

  I had to find other ways to cope without hurting myself.

  Without hurting them.

  Brennan walks over, pulling me into his arms. I fight him, pounding my fists into his chest again. He holds me tighter, my arms flush against him, so I can’t hit him. A sensation of intense sickness and desolation sweeps over me.

  My hand covers my mouth, and I push away from Brennan with my other. I make a mad dash to the bathroom, leaning over the toilet in time to empty the contents of my stomach. Sparing a look over my shoulder, I see Brennan with a wet washcloth in his hand. He lays it across the back of my neck.

  After a few minutes of heaving, my stomach is empty, I lean back against the tub and wipe my face with the wet rag. My heart beats erratically as I wrap my arms around my legs, tucking my chin against my knees as my body trembles.

  Brennan sits on the floor next to me, stretching his arm across the side of the tub. His expression is grim as he watches me.

  “Hey.” He touches under my chin, raising my gaze to his. “I’m so sorry.”

  I shake my head.

  Brennan pulls me into his lap. His arms encircle me, one hand on the small of my back. Something he always did when we were young. “You don’t have to tell me anything else.”

  I shudder as shame washes over me. “I was twelve years old when I made my first cut. The physical pain helped drown out the emotional pain. It was the first time I was able to control my own pain. I shut down when I was removed from Don and Peg’s house. Being ripped away from you left me broken. I struggled when I first arrived to live with Maureen and Charles.”

  I couldn’t look at Brennan. I was ashamed of what I was about to tell him.

  “I guess I got to the point where I hated being me. I would do anything to hurt myself. I wanted to die on so many occasions. I blamed myself for their beatings. I blamed you for social services taking me away. I figured maybe if I was a stronger person, people would stop hurting me. My mom left when I was born. My dad didn’t love me enough to keep me safe, to keep himself out of trouble. I blocked all emotions out when Peg and Don hurt me; I made myself go to a different place. Somewhere safe. I would always think of you.” My voice broke. “Cutting allowed me to control my own pain. It allowed me to feel something in a way that I could handle.”

  I bury my face against his throat. “You know I endured more pain while living in the house of horror than any child should. You know what they did to me. I tolerated the abuse. I suffered at the hands of those monsters while I was in their foster home.”

  My throat seems to close up. With a moan of distress, I turn away, looking at the floor. Closing my eyes, I refuse to re-experience the pain. “You know what? I’d grit my teeth to hold my cries in, refusing to allow them to see my pain when they beat me. Even the few times Don burned me with his cigarette.”

  Brennan takes my chin in his hand, turning my face to look at him. “Listen to me,” he says, emphasizing each word. “I am so happy Charles and Maureen were there for you. I’m sorry I told my mom, but I was twelve-years-old, and those monsters were going to kill you, Jules. I couldn’t stand by and watch it. I had to tell someone.”

  I nod. Tears well within my eyes. “The ten-year-old Jules hated you for breaking your promise, but I think the twenty-seven-year-old Jules just realized why you did it.”

  I swallow hard. I’m surprised I have any tears left to shed. Brennan smooths his hands over my cheeks.

  My scars healed, but do you ever recover from the pain that caused you to cut in the first place? I chose to cover my unwanted scars with tattoos. Covering them doesn’t make them go away, and I’ll always have to deal with the stares and judgment over having tattoos.

  “Can I ask you something?” His tone is patient.

  I nod.

  “Where else do you have scars?”

  The tears I’ve been trying so hard to keep at bay slip freely down my face. “All over. Why do you think I have so many tattoos? Instead of covering my scars with long sleeves, I chose to reclaim my body by covering them or repurposing them into something I could look at without shame.” My voice cracks with emotion.

  I lift my shirt, I point to the eight-point compass over my right ribs. “This piece represents a new direction in life. I got it on my nineteenth birthday, shortly after Charles allowed me to start an apprenticeship under his guidance.”

  Brennan peppers my shoulder with kisses, his hand slipping up my back, sliding under my shirt.

  “You saved me. Thank you,” I whisper.

  I rest my head against his shoulder. Reaching up, my fingers run along the short hair at his neck.

  A sense of relief washes over me. I’m no
longer keeping secrets from him. A door opened inside of me, letting everything out. My walls are finally collapsing. I feel exposed, but I don’t feel ashamed.

  People don’t meet by accident. Brennan was put in my life for a reason. Our paths were meant to cross all those years ago. I believed he was my guardian angel then. Were our paths meant to cross again?

  Only time will tell.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Brennan

  Mills is Juliette…my Jules. Juliette Mills.

  How did I not put the pieces together?

  To be honest, maybe I’ve always known, and that’s what drew me to her.

  I have her here in my arms, but the question is, will she stay?

  I need to tell her about the conversation I had with Charles. She needs to hear it from me. If Charles mentions we had a conversation a few weeks ago where he let her name slip, she’ll never forgive me.

  A hole forms in my chest where my heart should be. Hearing her tell me how she self-harmed to feel breaks me. Biles rises in my throat thinking about it.

  Jules has more scars than those etched on her skin. They run deeper than the ones on the surface. The tattoos covering her body also cover the scars the world can’t see, the scars her soul bears from the torture she endured.

  Our sayings from our childhood are etched permanently on our skin. What I would say to her and what she would say to me in return. I remember the first time I said it to her. The first time I knew she needed to get away from them, or they were going to kill her. The abuse was getting worse.

  “When it rains, look for rainbows,” I whispered in her ear while I rocked her back and forth in my lap on my bedroom floor.

  “Why do they hate me?” she sobbed.

  “They’re mean people, Jules.” My voice broke, knowing what Don had done to her.

  “I hate living there.” Tears blinded her eyes, and her voice was choked. “You’re the only reason I don’t tell anyone what they do to me. I don’t want to be taken away from you.”

  Jules wept aloud as I rocked her back and forth. I held her tight against my chest.

  “Jules, you have to tell someone. They can’t keep doing stuff like this to you.”

  She sniffled. “He’s never done that before.”

  “The punishments are getting worse, Jules. Please let me tell my mom. Maybe you can come live with us.”

  Her body stiffened in my hold, and she shook her head violently. She pulled back to look at me, fear filling her eyes. “No, please. You can’t say anything. Please, Brennan. Promise me you won’t tell anyone!”

  “Please let me tell my mom. She can help you,” I begged.

  “No. If she helps me, they’ll take me away. I can’t lose you, Brennan. Promise me you won’t say anything.”

  “Don’t make me promise,” I pled with her.

  She pushed off my lap and jumped to her feet, running to my bedroom door. I got to my feet quickly, grabbed her elbow, and stopped her from leaving. “Okay, I promise!” I yelled.

  She wiped her tears from her cheek, then held her pinky out. “Pinky swear, Brennan. You promise you won’t tell anyone. You can’t tell anyone about what Peggy and Don do to me.”

  My chest rose and fell with rapid breaths. I dipped my head slightly, avoiding eye contact, but I held my pinky up. “I swear.”

  I couldn’t look Juliette in the face, knowing I just lied to her. I kept my head down and swallowed hard a few times, as I tried to force down the contents of my stomach that wanted to come up. I’d never lied to her before. But I didn’t know how much longer I could protect her. The abuse was getting worse. Now, she had been left with a permanent scar on her arm. A scar she will carry for the rest of her life. A reminder of the hell she lived in.

  It took three weeks for the cigarette burns to heal. When they did, Jules was left with three scars on the inner side of her left arm.

  “Look how ugly they are,” she cried and pointed at the angry, red scars on her arm.

  “Come here.” I took her hand and made her sit on my chair in front of my desk. I pulled out a black permanent marker, one I used to color my sketches with.

  “Give me your arm.”

  She lifted it up hesitantly.

  “I’ll make it prettier, I promise,” I said, my voice gentle.

  The marker glided across her skin effortlessly. “When it rains, look for rainbows.” I wrote in cursive writing, as nice as I could.

  It was something my mom always told me. Something I shared with Jules. Every time they hurt her, I held her and whispered, “When it rains, look for rainbows,” into her ear. I prayed it helped her to know she deserved something more. She deserved to be loved by more than my mom and myself.

  When the writing faded, I’d go over it again. I always told Jules she was like a shooting star, rare and hard to come by. We would lay in my yard, staring at the stars, and make wishes every night.

  I wished Jules would let me tell my mom what those monsters were doing to her, but she made me promise.

  Jules would wish to stay best friends forever. Even with the evil things they did to her, she never wanted to leave me. We were best friends.

  “Here, write on me.” I pointed to my arm. I held my arm out and handed Jules the marker. She wrote what my mom always said to her when she spoke of her father. The saying held true to Jules. My mom always reminded Jules her father was with her. He was within her heart, and if she wanted to talk to him, look for the stars, he would always be shining over her.

  “When it’s dark, look for stars.” We have matching tattoos. The phrases are special to us.

  I lean down, tipping her chin to look at me. “I have to tell you something else.”

  Jules was visibly trembling now. A tear rolls down her cheek. Seeing the pain in her eyes chokes my throat with my own tears. She is hurting, and it kills me.

  “Promise you’ll let me finish before you assume the worst.” Seeing the pain etched into Jules’ eyes when she told me what she did to herself kills me. Knowing what I am going to tell her next is like taking a dagger to the heart.

  She nods. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. If she talks to Charles about this revelation, she needs to know about the conversation he and I had.

  “A few weeks back, Charles and I were in his office. We were talking about the wonderful thing you are doing to help others. He slipped and called you Jules.”

  Her body stiffens against mine. She tries to push away to stand, but I grab hold of her, pulling her down onto my lap, my arms wrapping around her so she can’t escape.

  “Let go of me, now!” she growls, trying to get free.

  My hold on her tightens as I plead. “Stop! Hear me out,” I snarl against her, holding her body against my chest.

  “You saw my tattoo, and then you heard him call me Jules. How could you not have known?” Her tears choke her as her body trembles.

  I sigh. “I already told you, I saw your tattoo, but I didn’t connect the dots. For fuck's sake, Jules, we were in the heat of the moment. I didn’t stop and think.”

  She continues to twist and turn, trying to get free.

  “Will you stop? Listen to me, goddammit!” I growl.

  Jules is fighting me with all her strength, forcing me to hold her against my body. “When I asked why you go by Mills, he told me you didn’t like the name Juliette, you didn’t want the guys at the shop to think you were a princess of some sort. You introduced yourself to me as Mills. I never pushed to find out your first name.”

  I lean in, kissing her neck, and her body stiffens. “If I loosen my hold on you, will you promise to hear me out?”

  She huffs but nods gloomily. When she agrees, I loosen my hold, and she leans her back against my chest, still refusing to look at me. “Something inside of me sparked to life when he called you Jules.”

  “You sure it wasn’t your dick that sparked to life?” Her voice is heavy with sarcasm.

  “You know you can do that to me with just a look.” With
that, my cock twitches under her ass.

  “This is not the time for that,” she murmurs, shifting her ass off my dick and onto my thigh.

  “Please let me finish. You need to know I’m not lying.” My heart falls, knowing a simple conversation is becoming tricky.

  “When Charles slipped with your name, it got me thinking. You never mentioned your past, so I figured there must be a reason. I hired an investigator to try and locate you. I only had your date of birth, and your name, Juliette Adler. But he came up empty. The thought never occurred to me that you’d changed your last name.”

  Jules isn’t the only one with marks from her past. We were best friends for five years; she undeniably left her mark on me. I can still see her face as the car drove away, taking a piece of my heart with her. We may have been kids, but we were each other’s world. It’s hard to let someone go when they meant that much to you.

  “Please look at me. You need to see how sincere I am. I promise I’m not lying.” Jules shifts so we are facing each other.

  “You still haven’t answered the question. When did you know I was Jules?”

  “I don’t know, but this time when I saw your tattoo, it clicked. Then you just confirmed being adopted by Charles and Maureen. A slew of memories flashed through my mind. The one night you were here, you mentioned your love of To Kill a Mockingbird. I remember reading it out loud to you when we were kids. Something about how you looked at the book reminded me of how excited you would get when we settled in my bedroom each day to read another chapter of it.

  “I knew in my heart this couldn’t be a coincidence. Then you told me about your best friend giving you a drawing pad and markers for your seventh birthday. I’ll never forget that day, the way your face lit up when you unwrapped your gift.”

  A laugh escapes me. “I remember your smile. It went from ear to ear, showing how you’d lost your two front teeth.” I shake my head, recalling the day vividly.