The Scars He Left: A Second Chance At Happiness

I woke up to the sharp, chemical tang of fresh blueprints and ammonia.

I wasn't in a hospital bed.

I was sitting at the drafting table in the estate's library, slumped over the wood.

My head was pounding so hard I thought my skull had fractured along the sutures. My arm throbbed where the needle had been, the puncture site wrapped in a crude bandage stippled with dried blood.

"Finally," a voice said.

I lifted my heavy head, fighting the gravity that tried to pull me back down.

Floyd was leaning against the heavy oak desk, a silhouette of casual cruelty.

He held a rolled-up set of plans in his hand, tapping them rhythmically against his thigh.

"You've been out for three hours. Wasting time."

He threw the plans onto my table. They unrolled with a snap, revealing the complex layout of a new casino complex on the waterfront.

"The structural supports for the underground vault are wrong," he said, his tone bored. "The city inspector is coming tomorrow. If this isn't fixed to hide the laundering room, they shut us down."

I blinked, trying to focus. The lines on the paper were swimming, refusing to stay still.

"Floyd... I can't," I whispered, my voice cracking. "My hands... I can't feel my hands."

He sighed.

It was a sound of suffering patience, as if I were the one being unreasonable.

He reached under the desk and pulled something up.

It was a crate.

Inside was Sunny.

My golden retriever. The dog I had raised since she was a puppy. The only living thing in this house that looked at me with love instead of calculation.

Floyd pulled a gun from his waistband.

He didn't point it at me.

He pointed it at the crate.

"Sunny has been barking all morning," he said casually. "It's giving me a headache."

My heart stopped in my chest.

"No," I gasped. I tried to stand, but my knees buckled, useless as water. "Floyd, don't. Please."

"Fix the plans, Elizebeth," he said. He clicked the safety off-a dry, mechanical sound that echoed in the silence. "Every mistake you make is a reason for me to pull this trigger."

I grabbed a pencil.

My fingers were stiff claws, uncooperative and alien. I gripped the wood so hard it snapped in two.

I grabbed another one.

I started to draw.

I drew through the tears blurring my vision. I drew through the violent shaking of my body.

I corrected the load-bearing walls. I hid the vault behind the ventilation shafts, my mind operating on pure adrenaline and terror.

I worked for two hours, terrified to look up, terrified to hear the deafening bang.

"Done," I sobbed, dropping the pencil. "It's done."

Floyd stepped forward and checked the plans.

He nodded.

"See? You just needed motivation."

He holstered the gun.

"Tea is being served on the terrace. Bring the plans. Jaylah wants to see where her new office will be."

I followed him like a ghost.

My legs dragged, heavy as lead.

We went out to the terrace. The heaters were blasting, glowing orange against the winter grey, fighting a losing battle against the biting wind.

Jaylah and her recovering mother were sitting at the iron table.

A silver tea service was laid out, gleaming in the dull light.

There was a brazier of hot coals nearby, keeping the area warm.

I placed the plans on the table.

"Here," I said.

Jaylah looked at me. She smiled, but her eyes were dead-two chips of ice.

She stood up, pretending to reach for the sugar.

As she moved, her foot lashed out.

She kicked my shin, hard.

I stumbled forward, my balance already compromised.

My hip hit the table with a jarring thud.

The teapot wobbled and tipped over.

Scalding hot Earl Grey splashed onto the Matriarch's lap.

The woman screamed.

"You little bitch!" Jaylah shrieked.

She turned to Floyd, her face twisted in fake horror.

"She attacked her! She tried to burn my mother!"

Floyd's face went dark.

He looked at the Matriarch, who was wailing, and then at me.

"I didn't..." I started, panic rising in my throat. "She kicked me..."

"Enough!" Floyd roared.

He grabbed me by the throat.

He lifted me off my feet, slamming me back against the stone railing. The impact knocked the wind out of me.

"I take your blood to save her, and you try to burn her?" he yelled, spittle flying from his lips. "You are a snake, Elizebeth. A poisonous, ungrateful snake."

"Floyd, look at me!" I choked out, clawing at his hand. "It's a lie!"

He didn't see me.

He only saw the insult to his power.

"You like fire?" he asked, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. "You want to burn things?"

He dragged me toward the brazier.

The coals were glowing red hot. The heat radiating from them scorched my face, drying the tears on my cheeks instantly.

"Jaylah says you don't deserve hands that create art if you use them to hurt family," Floyd said.

He forced me toward the coals.

"Admit you did it on purpose," he demanded. "Admit it, or I bring your mother here and I put her hands in this fire instead."

My blood ran cold.

My mother. She was in a nursing home paid for by the Meyers trust. He could get to her in ten minutes.

I looked at the coals.

I looked at my hands. The hands that drew. The hands that built. The hands that were my only ticket out of this hell.

"Leave her out of this," I whispered.

"Admit it!"

"I did it!" I screamed, my voice raw. "I did it! I wanted to burn her!"

Floyd released my neck.

"Punishment," Jaylah said softly from behind him, her voice silky with satisfaction. "An eye for an eye."

Floyd looked at me.

"Do it," he said.

He pointed to the coals.

"Put them in. Or I call the boys to pick up your mother."

I looked at him one last time.

I engraved his face into my memory. Not to love him. But to remember the face of the devil so I would never forget who to hate.

I took a deep breath.

And I plunged my hands into the fire.