Page 150 of Love Unwritten
“What’s that?”
“A scar.”
He stays quiet while he softly rubs his thumb over the same spot. If he presses a little to the left, he will find another scar…and then a different one next to that. It isn’t difficult since my body is riddled with them, although my long dress does a good job of hiding them from plain sight.
“What happened?” he asks while stroking my skin through the fabric of my dress.
I remember that first cut like it was yesterday. The anger. The hate. The pressure building inside my head without any kind of outlet.
My mom couldn’t help me, at least not yet. She was struggling with her own demons, and the biggest one of all was Anthony Davis.
Father. Deputy. Abuser.
“You don’t have to tell me,” he says a moment later.
“I was thinking about where to start, not whether I wanted to talk about it.”
We both stare up at the stars and a night sky that reminds me so much of my own thighs and the stars I had tattooed around my scars.
A shooting star races across the sky, and I take it as a sign. “When I was younger, I had difficulty controlling my emotions.”
His thumb keeps rubbing against my scar, back and forth, giving me the reassurance to continue.
“My father was a mean man who took pleasure in belittling his wife and daughter. No one knew that about him though, because to the public, he was an upstanding citizen. A deputy with a bright future ahead of him. The doting husband and father that they show in movies or magazines.” The words are tainted with my obvious disgust.
Rafael’s heart stutters against my ear.
“He had absolutely no control, at least not with us. It was only a matter of time before I picked up on his propensity to explode.” I flip my palm over on his chest so he can see the scar. “I was only eleven when I had my first…incident.”
His heart picks up speed again. “Incident?”
“Self-harm.” I run my thumb over my first scar on the palm of my hand. “It started as an accident. Someone had bought me one of those vintage hand mirrors, and one day after my father exploded on me for drawing on my skin with a permanent marker, I broke it. Just threw it at a wall and watched it shatter into a hundred different pieces.”
“What did he say?”
“That only ugly girls draw on their skin like that.”
“What a bastard.”
“When he came in and saw it, he told me to pick it up myself. Forbade my mother from helping too. Said that if I wanted to be an angry brat, then I needed to learn my lesson by cleaning up my own mess.” I tense up at the memory.
Rafael brushes a hand down my spine. “You were only eleven.”
“Regardless, I shouldn’t have thrown something out of anger. That was something he would do.”
“You were a child.” His words mimic mine from earlier. “You’re allowed to make mistakes and get upset.”
“Yeah, well, not in my house. Everything had to be perfect, including me.”
There is a fire behind Rafael’s eyes, his anger simmering just below the surface. “Did he ever hit you?”
“No, but he didn’t have to because his words always packed a punch.”
Rafael traces the fine bones in my hands. “I think your tattoos only enhance your beauty.”
I can hardly manage a thank you, given how tight my throat feels. I’ve never had someone look at me or talk to me the way he does.
“What happened?” he asks.