The Deepest Scars

Someone was shaking my arm. I tried to take it back, but they wouldn't let go.

I just needed a little more rest . . . surely I could be allowed that much right? We just fought off a horde of aliens . . . some shut-eye was warranted, right?

"Sweetie?"

/Oh. It's Mom. I must have been dreaming./

I cracked open one eye and then the next before propping up on my arms to look around. The familiar weight of Atlas at my side was gone, and I fought to blink away the last vestiges of sleep from my vision.

"Sweetie, it's Mom." She moved her hand from my arm to my shoulder. "You're alright. You were having a bad dream, sweetie."

A bad dream?

Finally, I managed to focus; Mom was kneeling next to me. She was red-faced and failing to hide the tears she'd shed.

I glanced around one last time, then wiped away some drool from the corner of my mouth and rubbed my face to try and look presentable.

Mom waited silently, smoothing my hair back, as I chased away the last traces of my dream. The one I could barely remember.

"I didn't mean to startle you," she said, her face taut with worry.

"Sorry," I muttered. I sat back and glanced at the clock on my nightstand with squinted eyes.

Seven in the morning. My appointment with Ava and the agents was in a couple of hours.

"Oh baby I can't stand to see you like this," she wailed, pulling me into an embrace. Her voice was heavy like she'd been holding back from crying.

I grunted and shifted into a more comfortable position.

She sniffed wetly and said, "There has to be something I can do to help."

The hopelessness in her voice brought on a fresh wave of emotions. "What do you mean?"

"You were screaming—I didn't know what to do. You wouldn't wake up no matter what I did."

"I don't remember anything," I murmured, staring at my hands. "I was screaming? In my sleep?"

She nodded. "You were. It was awful."

Frowning, I tried to recall anything that would give me a clue about what happened, but there was nothing. I felt like I hadn't slept a wink, but that was it.

"I can't remember," I said again.

Mom smoothed my hair back again and smiled at me. "Probably for the best. I normally hear you whimpering or crying sometimes, but you stop if I come in and hold your hand. This is the first time that didn't help . . ."

"Oh . . . I'm sorry."

She chuckled. "Why are you apologizing to me? I'm the one who should be apologizing . . . I can't protect you." She started to choke up again and I knew if I didn't stop her, I would too.

"It's fine. I can't remember so I'm okay," I assured her. "I'll get up in a moment and come downstairs."

Nodding, Mom stood up and gave me a kiss on the forehead before leaving.

Sighing, I rubbed my eyes and stretched. Mom had already told me about crying in my sleep, but was it really the first time I'd been screaming? And I couldn't remember any of it . . .

Was it because Wolf had visited?

I could have sworn I was with him again, but apparently that had been a dream. Or maybe just my memories getting mixed up.

My legs were stiff and sore as I climbed out of bed, but they cooperated for the most part. I didn't bother with my crutches at first and just gathered my clothes, then headed to the bathroom to take a shower.

At the last second, I remembered to grab my crutches and knee brace.

I stopped at the top of the steps to look down to the living room. Mom was down there, sitting on the couch with Dad. Kristie and Alan weren't going to be home until later, and then my sister would return her normal "grounded" activities of sitting in her room and pouting.

They'd made an exception last night since the funeral had been such a sore spot for everyone. Last I heard, she had lost a great deal of her privileges until she turned eighteen in a year and a half.

Don't know if they were exaggerating or not.

She still resented me quite a bit. I could see when she looked at me, heard it when we spoke. If we spoke. She was giving me the silent treatment, it seemed.

Oh well.

My parents had bought a chair for me to sit on so I could bathe, though I tried to stand for as long as I could before giving in.

I had to keep the incision site clean at all times, so I spent a lot of my shower doing just that. It was a pain in the ass because it was still kind of sore and tender, but they had already taken out the sutures before I'd left the hospital.

For the most part, it was practically healed. I still wanted to keep it clean, though, especially the surgery scars on my knees.

Most of my swelling and bruises had all but disappeared. The worst injuries would need more time, but I'd spent so long in the hospital that the worst of it was behind me.

Now all I had were the angry, fresh scars.

When the water started to get cold, I decided to drag myself out of the shower and get dressed. I just threw on a t-shirt and jeans and some socks, brushed my still-wet hair, and called it good enough.

With my brace on, I was ready for the day.

I hobbled once again to the top of the stairs and stared down. The crutches just made it harder, usually, so instead of trying to maneuver my way down with them, I just slid them along the steps until they hit the floor at the bottom.

The sound they made at the bottom of the steps made me wince. With a resigned sigh, I waited for my parents to come investigate.

"Nichole? Are you alright?" Mom called. A chair in the kitchen scraped against the tile.

Dad made it, first, since he'd just ben sitting on the couch. Mom followed a few paces behind him, looking worried, frightened even. Both of them relaxed when they realized I wasn't in any danger.

"Yeah, just . . . coming down the stairs," I answered.

Forcing air out between my lips, I grabbed the railing and started the descent into the living room landing.

Dad moved to the bottom step and asked, "Do you need help?"

"No, Dad. Might just take me a second."

Nodding, he returned to the couch but didn't take a seat. Mom ducked close enough to grab my crutches so I wouldn't trip on them. I thanked her and managed not to roll my eyes, though the urge was there, strong and ever-present.

/They're just trying to help,/ I told myself.

When I made it down, she handed them to me promptly.

"Thanks," I muttered.

The smell of French Toast wafted to my nose and I inhaled the scent. It brightened my mood and I looked up at my mom.

"You made French Toast?"

"It's your favorite, right?" she confirmed, beaming.

To my surprise, Alan was sitting at the table, waiting to be served. I blinked at him and then said, "Oh, hey bud. Home so soon?"

He nodded. "They had to run errands so they dropped me off here," he explained, referring to his friend and their parents.

"Oh, well. At least you get French toast now," I said, sitting down in my normal seat.

I leaned my crutches next to me. Mom and Dad sat down, too, and I was served a few slices of toast.

"Are you ready for today?" Dad asked me.

"What's today?" I replied.

"Your meeting with Ava. Won't you find out if you can go back to school today?" he said.

"Oh, right. Yeah I guess so."

"Here's some breakfast for my babies!" Mom sang, forking two slices of French Toast onto my plate and then serving Alan and Dad.

She pushed the tub of butter and bottle of her homemade syrup close by and I gathered up the silverware that Dad handed me.

It had been years since they'd waited on me like this and I felt my cheeks flush with heat. They were only trying to help, and I understood that, but I wasn't an invalid. I was basically self-sufficient.

Sure, I'd needed a little bit of help at the beginning, but now I was mostly ok. My physical self was on the right path, I just needed my mental self to be.

All I wanted was to be treated normally.

"How are your legs?" Alan asked around a mouthful of toast.

"A little achy, but I haven't needed to take my painkillers for a few days," I said, slathering my own toast with an egregious amount of syrup. Mom made it herself fresh.

Nodding, my brother swallowed and took a swig of orange juice.

"Are you . . . looking forward to maybe going back to school?" Mom asked carefully.

The question made me chuckle humorlessly. My mouth moved up and down, but in the end, I chose not to answer the question and instead took my first bite of breakfast.

However, Dad wasn't going to let me avoid the question. "How long do you plan on avoiding it?"

Mom gave him a withering look. "She almost died," she hissed at him, as if I wouldn't be able to hear her. I pretended not to.

"I don't know," I replied, sharper than I'd meant. The tendons in my jaw tensed as I tried to control my emotions.

"I wish I got to skip school," Alan muttered into his meal.

Dad leaned over and flicked his elbow. "Don't eat with your elbows in the table. You already got a three day weekend, that's enough school skipping for you."

Alan grumbled but did as he was told.

As well fell into silence, I felt like a stranger sitting at that table. Like this wasn't my house. The tension in the air was palpable and I thought maybe it would be better if I went to eat in my room.

Alan might not have known what was going on, how exactly I'd hurt my legs, but everyone else did. He knew there was an accident that killed a lot of people and almost me, but that was it.

Everyone else knew. Mom was treating me like a delicate China doll and Dad was eager to pretend this never happened, that all the hoops I was having to jump through were overreactions. Exact opposite of Mom.

Neither one of them were helping.

I tried to focus on my meal, content to let them chat quietly with Alan while I came up with a way to ask Ava what I should do.

'Hey, this alien wants me to come with him should I go or stay here?' was a bit out of the question. I was going to have to get a little creative if I wanted some help.

Leave my family . . .

Go with Wolf . . .

Stay and return things to normal . . .

Live out my life the way it should have been . . .

Or, well, as close as possible considering everything.

Tears sprang to my eyes before I could try to control myself. I swallowed more food like it was made out of lead and slowly lowered my wrists to rest against the table.

Bite after bite I forced myself to take but I couldn't enjoy it, not like I wanted to. I had wanted to sit at the table and eat like we were a family again, but everything was so tense.

My mind wouldn't stop racing. I couldn't decide, couldn't weigh the pros and cons. I wished that none of this had happened, wished I didn't have to think about these things now.

I wished my friends were alive, that I could go play soccer. I was adrift in a dark, lonely sea with no flotation device.

Though I tried my best to hide them, the tears came unbidden. I sniffed quietly and forced my jaw to chew the food I was shoveling in, trying to swallow it and my mounting sorrow.

"Honey, what's wrong?" Mom asked, her fingertips brushing against my upper arm.

I clenched my eyes shut and wiped my tears on my shoulder.

"S'fine," I slurred, ducking my head and forcing large chunks of sodden toast into my mouth.

Now everyone was staring at me.

How could I have thought everything was going to be okay? There were too many emotions roiling inside me; relief, guilt, anger, anguish, and so many more.

How was I going to be able to face Wolf anymore in this condition? How could I leave? How could I stay? I didn't belong anywhere anymore.

I wished I'd just died.

"Sweetie," Mom crooned.

I put my hand on my head and attempted to stomach another mouthful of my meal, but a fresh wave of tears was spilling over my cheeks. I sniffled and fought back the sobs, smothering them with food.

"What's wrong with Nichole?" Alan asked.

Dad hushed him and he sank into his chair, pouting.

"We'll tell you later," Mom said in a gentle tone.

"It's always later," he mumbled, finishing his glass of juice and scraping up the last traces of syrup onto what remained of his breakfast. The metal of his fork made a shrill sound against the porcelain.

/Screeching./

Instantly, my flight or fight response kicked in and my spine went rigid. I shunted to my feet, much to the protest of my legs, and nearly knocked my chair over in the process.

My crutches weren't so lucky, however, and they hit the floor with an awful noise. The kitchen was no longer there, nor were the members of my families.

/Which way—where is it coming from—it's too dark—I can't see—/

/The drone was around, poised to attack—it was waiting, it was somewhere—it had to be—/

Mom's voice cut through me and I swung my arm without thinking when she set her hand on my shoulder. She let out a surprised gasp and stumbled away from me, almost falling over in the process.

"Baby—baby it's okay!" she insisted.

Everything came back to me in a rush as my vision focused. My entire body was trembling, every muscle tense and ready for a fight. I was breathing heavily, defensive and on-edge.

Mom was standing feet away and Dad was up as well. Alan looked terrified as he sat in his chair. It took me a second to calm down.

In my hand was a fork, held up and clutched in a white-knuckled grip.

I'd lashed out at my own MOTHER with it. My goddamn FORK.

Dad wound his way around the table to check on Mom. I limped away from her a pace or two and dropped the fork, my other hand flitting up to cover my mouth in disbelief.

My lip quivered as I said, "Mom, I—I didn't—"

"I'm fine, she didn't hit me," she told Dad, pushing him away from her. "Just caught me by surprise, that's all."

The pressure behind my eyes exploded and I broke out in a sob that drove me to my knees.

"I'm—I'm sorry. I'm so—I didn't—"

Mom circumvented Dad and crouched to put her arms around me. Dad stood nearby, but he didn't venture any closer except to pick up the fork I'd dropped and put it back on the table.

"Is Nichole okay?" Alan asked. He was standing now.

"She's going to be fine, Alan," my mom said through her own tears. "You're alright, baby girl. Mommy's got you. She knows you didn't mean it, everything's okay, shh . . . shh it's okay, it's okay."

I wasn't sure who she was trying to convince more, and I knew then that I was in no shape to be with Wolf.