His Scar

Prologue

I never thought I was handsome. Not even before the car accident. But now I can’t look at my reflection in the mirror.

My friends say it isn’t a big deal, it’s just a scar. True, it is, but it changed me permanently. There is this large, long, indented, dark pink, gross line across my cheekbone. It ends above my upper lip and looks like a damn highway to me. The skin around it is wrinkled and stained. I’m twenty-five and my skin looks old

I let my hair grow long so my face is partially covered, but the scar is still too obvious. My face is still too obvious. Every time someone looks at me, I just hope my eyes are distracting enough, so they won’t notice the rest. I’ve been told my eyes are so blue they look painted. Patrick said that. Or at least he used to say that when everything was fine between us. Since the accident, he’s no longer focused on my eyes, or on anything else about me, for that matter. I get the feeling sometimes he’s afraid to look at my scar, but I don’t dare ask. I assume our story is winding down, but I don’t ask for confirmation. He’s always far away, traveling for business, and the phone calls come fewer and fewer with each passing day. Not that we were engaged, so it’s kind of okay for me. At least I think so. I’m not really in the right mood to process it.

I’ve talked to my doctors, but they said it’s still too early for facial surgery. The fractures of the facial bones were severe and healed after the surgery, but I’ll have to live with this nightmare on my face until they tell me I’m ready.

I don’t know if I’m angry or just tired.

One thing I do know, though: it’s really hard to smile again.

I don’t remember the accident very well. I just know a car hit mine and drove off. Then it’s all a blank. The car that caused the accident disappeared soon after and the police never found the driver. The next thing I remember is lying in a hospital bed with my parents staring at me. I remember they tried to look happy, happy that I was alive, but I immediately suspected something was wrong.

My face was a disaster.

A few months have passed since then, and I know my parents are worried about me—because of my lack of enthusiasm in everything, because I avoid any hint of a social life, and, in general, because of my grumpy moods.

Not that I was much of a talker even before the accident, but my moods have gradually been getting worse. I even stopped hanging out with my best friends, and then I quit my job at the bookshop.

But I needed some time to recover.

I needed to find some balance before coming out of my shell again.

Now, after months of doing nothing but reading—luckily my sight wasn’t damaged or I would have killed myself—I’m here, looking at the sign above the library.

I’ve finally decided it was the right time for a fresh start, so I answered an employment ad for a reception position here.

I will keep reading my books, no one will bother me, I won’t be forced to chat. And I can be as grumpy as I please.

And this is, more or less, when the rest of my life starts. 1

I’m looking at the sign above the library with my hands deep in my pockets, and I’m biting my bottom lip, trying to find the courage to enter, when my phone rings.

It’s my mother, and as she starts listing recommendations and giving advice. I just grunt in reply. I don’t want to be rude, but I’m trying to do something here, and I’d appreciate having a few minutes to mentally prepare myself before taking the first step in this new direction.

I click off her call, but the phone rings again. This time it’s my father, asking if I got there safe and sound. I can’t blame him, considering what happened to me.

After speaking briefly with him, I hang up and the phone rings again. Really? I look up at the sky and snort. Jeez!

Charlene, A.K.A. Charlie. My first girlfriend. And my last. We dated in high school, when I was trying to convince myself I was heterosexual. It didn’t work, of course, but she was—and remains—my best friend. She’s married to Frank, a good man who loves her in the way she deserves. So everyone’s happy. Almost.

“Charlie, what’s up?” I ask, staring at the door of the library.

“Why are you answering?”

“Because you called me?”

“No, I mean, you’re supposed to be at work. This is your first day.”

“I know that, and maybe, just maybe, if you all stopped calling me, I could do that.”

“Well, I was just checking.”

“So did my parents.”

“Oh, that’s sweet!”

“Yes, it’s sweet, but I should go now.”

“Okay, honey. Will you call me later? I’m curious to hear all about your first day!”

“Okay. I promise.”

“Good. Go and kill them all!”

“Charlie, I’m not Spartacus and you’re not Sura. This is just a library.”

“Damn! A real charmer, aren’t you?”

“It’s as if you don’t know me.”

“I know you and I love you, but your social skills need polishing.”

“Charlie…”

“Okay, go. See you later, dear!”

I hang up, smiling and turning the phone off before taking a long, deep breath. Ready to—

“Oh, is this a library?”

The voice comes from behind me and it makes me turn around. I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from answering with something sarcastic like, No, it’s a butcher’s store.