Page 54 of Scarred Sins

As I gather my thoughts, minutes pass, and I spot a nurse. Quickly, I toss the jacket on the chair next to me and rush toward her.

“Excuse me,’’ I yell over before she can leave my field of vision.

She turns with a warm smile. “How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for…’’ I trail off, not knowing Arlo’s last name. “A young man, white hair, he was shot a few hours ago.’’

“He’s asleep right now, but he should make a full recovery.’’

Relief washes over me, and I can’t help the smile that breaks on my face. “Can I see him?”

Skeptically, she tilts her head to the side. “It’s late; you should come back in the morning.’’

“Please,’’ I don’t bother hiding my desperation. “Just a few minutes.’’

She’s reluctant but ends up sighing. “Fine, follow me. You have ten minutes.’’

“Thank you.’’

I follow the nurse down the long corridor until we reach one of the rooms. The nurse reminds me of the time limit, to which I nod, because it’s more than enough time. My hand shakes when I reach for the doorknob, pushing the door open.

Arlo lies on the bed, eyes closed.

Silently, I inch closer, as if some higher power is dragging me toward him. I pick up the empty chair and put it next to his bed, then sit on it, just looking at him.

My hand clasps over him. If I let go, all of this will become too real, and the whirlwind of my emotions is something I’m not prepared to handle – Ican’thandle it.

“I’m so sorry,’’ I breathe out, as quietly as possible. “It’s my fault you’re in here. I’m so sorry, Arlo.’’

I hadn’t realized how much of a crybaby I was up until this point. A tear rolls down my cheek, and I can’t stop it. He looks so peaceful, his breathing soft and his chest moving up and down, at a better pace than in the car.

His eyelashes are dark, a stark contrast to his hair. They’re thick and long, simply gorgeous. It’s laughable how it took him almost dying for me to realize the smallest details: the one stray strand of hair that won’t stay put no matter how many times I brush it off his face, the freckles on his nose, and a tiny black dot, a beauty mark right on the cupid’s bow of his upper lip.

He has a scar on his chin. It’s small and rather pale, meaning it must’ve happened quite a long time ago. But it’s in such an odd position and shape that it must have a story of its own, a story that I now want to know.

The truth is: I know nothing about Arlo.

However, he knows everything about me.

My deepest, darkest secrets, my biggest fears, and my weaknesses.

Arlo was the first person I trusted enough to tell who I truly was and the first person to tell every single detail of my life, the details that I’m still struggling to process.

He knows exactly how I killed my mother and stepfather.

I planned it a whole year before it happened.

I’d dreamed of the day I was going to be freed of the torture they put me through. I was locked up in my room, with no education and no human contact aside from them and the men that were paying my parents to use my body, time and time again.

Food was delivered by slipping the plate through the small crack under the door that was otherwise sealed shut. I preferred my prison time over the time at home any time. At least, in prison, I didn’t fear that someone would come to abuse me in the worst ways imaginable.

One day, I was bold enough to steal a pocket knife from one of the men that had come to see me.

He loved cutting my flesh, watching me bleed. It was never enough to scar, just enough to draw blood. No matter how much I cried, begged, and screamed for him to stop, he wouldn’t. My pleas were just fuel for him, and he continued with more violence each time he visited.

One day, one of his knives slipped.

I noticed it.