The Scars He Left: A Second Chance At Happiness

The sun was a pale, anemic thing struggling to rise over the horizon.

My fingers were blue.

They were stiff, clumsy appendages that refused to obey the desperate commands of my brain.

I sat huddled against the brick pillar of the gate, the emerald silk spread across my lap like a pool of frozen blood.

I had been sewing for six hours.

Every push of the needle had been a battle.

My hands-the hands of an architect that used to draw straight lines and complex structures-were shaking uncontrollably.

I had to bite the inside of my cheek to focus, using the sharp sting of pain to ground myself.

The last stitch.

I bit through the thread because my scissors were buried somewhere in the snow, and I couldn't feel my fingers enough to hunt for them.

I stood up.

My legs screamed in protest.

The cold had settled deep into my bones, a heavy, aching weight that made me feel brittle, as if I might shatter.

I pressed the buzzer on the intercom.

The gate clicked open.

I walked up the long driveway, the dress draped carefully over my arms to keep it from the slush.

Floyd and Jaylah were standing on the balcony above the main entrance.

They were drinking coffee.

The steam rising from their mugs looked like a distant miracle.

I stopped beneath them.

"It's done," I croaked. My voice was a broken rasp, ruined by the cold.

Floyd looked down.

He assessed the dress, his eyes scanning the seams for imperfections with a critical, unfeeling gaze.

"Bring it up," Jaylah said.

She didn't sound grateful. She sounded like she was inspecting a delivery from the dry cleaners.

I walked into the house.

The warmth of the foyer hit me like a physical blow, making my skin prickle and burn as the blood rushed violently back to the surface.

I climbed the stairs.

My face was a mask of bruises. I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror-one eye swollen shut, a split lip, dried blood crusted on my chin.

I didn't just look injured; I looked like a casualty of war.

I walked onto the balcony.

I held the dress out to Jaylah.

She took it, her manicured fingers brushing against my ice-cold knuckles. She recoiled immediately, as if I were diseased.

She held the silk up to the light.

"It's decent work," she said, sniffing disdainfully.

Then she paused.

She pointed to a tiny, dark speck near the hem.

"What is this?"

I squinted, my vision blurring.

"It's... it might be a drop of blood," I whispered. "From my lip."

Jaylah dropped the dress as if it had caught fire.

"Disgusting," she spat. "You ruined it again. I can't wear this. It has her filth on it."

She looked at Floyd, her eyes wide with feigned outrage.

"She did it on purpose, Floyd. She wants to ruin our engagement party."

Floyd looked at the emerald silk lying on the floor.

Then he looked at me.

There was no sympathy in his gaze. Only irritation.

"Get out of my sight," he said. "Go to the guest quarters. You're confined until I decide what to do with you."

I turned to leave, but my eyes caught something draped over the railing.

It was a grey scarf.

Cashmere. Hand-knit.

I had spent three months knitting that for Floyd last winter.

I had chosen that specific wool because it was soft, because he always complained that the store-bought ones were too scratchy against his neck.

Jaylah saw me staring at it.

She picked it up.

"This old thing?" she laughed. "It's so tacky. It smells like a wet dog."

She looked at Floyd. "Can I toss it?"

My heart hammered against my ribs, a painful, frantic rhythm.

"Floyd," I said, my voice trembling. "I made that for you."

Floyd didn't look at me.

He looked out at the horizon, at the city he ruled.

"It's cheap trash," he said flatly. "Throw it."

Jaylah smiled.

She tossed the scarf over the railing.

I watched it fall.

It fluttered down, twisting in the wind, until it landed in the churned-up mud of the driveway where the SUVs had parked.

It landed right in a tire track.

Something inside me snapped.

It wasn't a loud snap. It was quiet.

It was the sound of the last tether holding me to this man dissolving into nothingness.

I didn't cry.

I was too cold to cry.

I just turned around and walked toward the guest rooms, leaving the dress, the scarf, and the man I used to love behind me.