S c a r s .

S c a r s .

“If you ever need anymore business you know where to find me, girly.”

Kirr forced a smile, her toes protesting the weight the three-inch heels put on them as she stepped out of the hotel room with a rolling suitcase. “You bet I will, sir.”

“Mike.”

“Oh yes. Mike. Excuse me.” She tried her best to block out the nauseating smell that drifted out of the room and stung her nostrils. She tried not to look at the well-built man in the doorway, with his mussed dark red hair and winning smile, though habit forced her eyes to stay trained on his. He had a wife named Melissa, she knew. And a little six-month daughter named Audrey. Both were the loves of his life. Melissa had other plans, however, with yet another man, and this was just how things progressed.

Kirr knew a great many other things about him: he liked it when she wore her little black dress with the sequins, and when she whispered in his ear, and when she responded to his wife’s name. She liked pretending that she was his wife sometimes. Any life was better than hers, she was sure.

He bade her goodnight one last time, before she disappeared into the elevator.

The young woman always felt exhausted after a job, and tonight was no exception-- she sighed and leaned against the railing along the inside of the round elevator, the lights of Baltimore glittering beyond the glass enticingly.

Half asleep, she startled when her cell phone rang. Kirr didn’t look at the screen; only one person knew her number.

She flipped it open and put it to her ear. “Yes, Leon?”

“Hun, when are you coming out?”

“I…I just got finished with Michael.” Her stomach roiled in discontent. She hated putting it like that.

“Cedar? Yeah, he just called… That’s my girl. I knew you could cheer him up.”

“…Of course.”

“I’ll pick you up. Just wait out front.”

“Yes, Leon.”

Ding. The elevator came to a stop at the lobby and Kirr stepped out, surrounded by the late-night crowd flocking to the bar. A man offered to buy her a drink; she ignored him with a flip of her black tresses and walked out to the front.

It was cold. She hated cold nights and she hated winter-- silently, she wished that Leon would hurry up for once in his life.

Not that she was ashamed of what people usually thought when they saw her, no. She had been taught not to be. It’s easier to tune most people out than you think, and after much practice and rigorous conditioning Kirr found no problem in wearing whatever she just happened to be wearing in public (most of the time, “what she just happened to be wearing” could be translated as “close to nothing”). When one of the hotel staff ventured outside and informed her that they would not allow soliciting on the premise Kirr merely regarded them with an seemingly honest, confused gaze, and answered that she was waiting for her father to pick her up. They left her alone after that.

Nevertheless, when a woman in a long coat passed her by without a second glance Kirr watched her meander down the sidewalk, studying her movements with a trained, intent eye. She waited patiently for the click in her mind and automatically unzipped the suitcase on the ground at her side, drawing out a leather trench coat and wrapping it about herself in a similar fashion to the woman she had seen. A hat and a retouch of lipstick later, she told the hotel bellboy (in an authentic Russian accent) that no, she had not seen a young girl in fishnets and a jean jacket, but if and when she did she would notify one of the hotel staff immediately, and then proceeded to chat with him about the upcoming Christmas holiday.

It was close to two in the morning when Leon finally drove up in his Mercedes Benz; she was already walking down the steps to the curb, stilettos clicking against the marble onto the pavement. As soon as she approached the door the man was out and beside her, taking her suitcase and stowing it away in the trunk.

“French?” he asked, eyeing her sway as he passed.

“Russian,” she corrected.

“Ah, touché.” He held open the door for her and she stepped inside.

“Where are we off to?” Kirr heard herself whisper, breath puffing ashy-white clouds into the night air.

Leon closed her door and circled to the other side of the car. “Glory. It’s not too far.”

“That’s where you took me. The day you found me.”

“Yes.” He settled down beside her in the driver’s seat and in a bold, practiced motion, bent down and kissed her.

Her lips soft against his. His body warm against hers. She couldn’t help it: unconsciously, the girl shivered.

It wasn’t fair to say that she didn’t feel anything, because she did. She just liked to imagine that she didn’t. She liked to believe that she was numb to these things already, that they didn’t matter to her, continuously reminding herself that he truly did not care for her, because it just made everything that much easier.


She watched the sun rise through the slats between the wooden vertical blinds, curled up on her side beneath the thick comforter with the blankets covering her nose and mouth. A dull ache rose from her lower abdomen but Kirr didn’t even bother to cringe-- the feeling was yet another she had grown used to (or forced herself to ignore), and was all too unpleasantly expected. Even under the electric blanket the young woman was decidedly cold; maybe if she could find her shirt, or some of her clothes, that would change.

But that would mean getting out of bed, which now appealed to her as much as a hippopotamus slathered with peanut butter did.

“Kirrah, hun, make me breakfast.”

An order. Leon never phrased something as a request, or as a question. There was never any question about whether or not she would do something. Never. The very idea was absolutely preposterous. She kept her moan of despair to herself and rolled out of the bed. Maybe, just maybe, if she was quiet enough… Cautiously, Kirr bent down and reached for the long shirt on the carpet, sprawled over her skirt and stockings.

“Now, Kirr,” Leon muttered impatiently. “And if you’re not dressed, that’s not my problem. It’s not my fault you’re such a slut.”

The words breezed over her head; she could hear them whistling as they flew past.

“Of course, Leon. Right away.”


Now, Kirr wasn’t one to complain. If she had, ever, it was presumably before she was eighteen.

Before the accident. Before the forgetting.

She had woken in a hospital-- that much, at least, she knew-- and her name was Kirrah. Kirrah Chekov. That was it, that was all. She couldn’t remember what her favorite color was, much less why she had been found with a bullet in her head. People’s actions were her only form of learning, and it was easier to assume what other people did was right rather than spending days upon days trying to remember. It was so easy it became almost like a game: when the nurse lifted a hand, so would she; when a wife barged in and demanded to see her husband, she said the words to herself over and over until they became second nature. Next came voices: little kids admitted to the hospital made a habit of bringing her to see episodes of their favorite shows, and asking her to repeat various lines in character. One of the doctors joked around with her, calling her “The Pretender” after a 90’s show that he wished would come back on. Imitation became something of a solace, the thing that had people coming back for more, and Kirr held on to that for as long as they would let her.

Being eighteen had put her in a precarious situation with Social Services, as she could be considered a lost child due to the age in which she was admitted, at seventeen, or an adult of no real concern at eighteen.

Many nights she would cry. Surely, surely, someone would come for her. Surely, they’d give her a second chance. Surely, she hadn’t been so much of a jerk that no one would care.

Someone.
Anyone.

She waited another week. And when they didn’t, she checked out of Cooper University Hospital on her own and didn’t look back.


Things were all right, for a while. It was hard, but Social Services provided her with funds every month to use and she even tried to go back to college for a bit a few years later after saving up money from a local job. She moved down to Baltimore, and applied to the University of Maryland. Acting appealed to her greatly; it reminded her of the imitation game, and that was something she was good at.

That was where Leon found her, standing on the steps of the university outside.

“You don’t have anywhere to go, do you?” he asked.

She wondered how he knew.

“I’ll take you in,” he said. At first, she drew back. He smiled. “My name’s Leon. Come on; let’s get you something to eat.”

She didn’t know why she followed him into the car. Maybe if she didn’t, things wouldn’t have turned out like they did. Maybe he would have dragged her in anyway. She didn’t know anything-- just that she got into the car with him, and he drove. He drove all the way to a town named Glory that she had never heard of, and stopped in front of a café with a sign that said, “The Grace”. Kirr remembered the kind black barista with the funny slang, and the music that floated from the stage behind her. She could still smell the coffee from another customer two booths back, and taste the smoothness of the hot chocolate on her tongue.

She couldn’t remember what she and Leon talked about, but it was easy to laugh with him. He admitted that he was much older than she was but Kirr paid no attention. Not then, anyway. For the first time she wasn’t concentrating on pretending, or imitating movements. It didn’t even cross her mind.


To be honest, she never thought that she would ever go back there again. And yet here she was, just steps behind Leon, silently wishing that he would stop paying attention to whatever was on the screen of his iPhone and open the door already.

It was late morning, close to noon, and Leon wanted to catch lunch before whatever important board meeting he had to attend was called into session.

“Distract Mr. Stratham until three…in any way possible. Can you do that for me, sweets?”

“Of course.”

“Good girl. I knew I could count on you.”

They sat down at a booth; Kirr remembered fondly that it was the same booth they had sat in when they met. She smiled at looked about, fingers steepled, as Leon went to the counter to buy things.

The room was the essence of warmth. She felt the vibrancy of life from the paintings, the colors of the song, the scent of home and muffins and coffee beans and vanilla that drifted about like some sort of lazy cloud. Banishing all other thoughts from her mind, the young woman allowed herself to sink back into the cushions of the booth chair and soak it all in.

When she turned again to check on Leon, though, something else caught her eye-- rather, someone else’s gaze caught hers. In surprise, she turned her neck away so fast that it cracked. Who was that? Why were they staring? Curious, Kirr looked back again.

The girl had interesting black hair tied up in two ponytails, the front bangs dyed an electric purple. Piercings covered her face and Kirr eyed them enviously as she had always wanted to get some, but Leon never allowed it. She couldn’t quite pinpoint the look on the other girl’s face but found that she couldn’t look away; it was as if she were asking a question and demanding an answer, though Kirr had no idea what the question was in the first place.

“Vic!” a burgundy-haired kid called from the counter. “Do you want coffee, or what?”

“Coffee’s fine. Thanks, Nolan.”

Leon returned then and Kirr drew her gaze away, but she could still feel the-girl-named-Vic’s eyes on the back of her neck. Leon paid no attention to her fidgeting as he was deep in a heated conversation over the phone; Kirr sunk down and nibbled at the chocolate chip muffin in front of her. Finally though, after a few minutes, she felt the burning sensation drift away and she chanced another look behind her. “Nolan” had sat down in front of “Vic”, blocking her from view. Kirr sighed and stuffed the remainder of the muffin into her mouth before sipping at her coffee.

She had to concentrate on the meeting that afternoon. Whatever that girl wanted was none of her business now.


Knock-knock! Knock-knock!

“Come in,” Lee Stratham muttered, focus trained on his computer screen. He didn’t look up when a beautiful young woman opened the door, clad in a white button-up blouse and light-grey skirt. The sheer color of her stockings contrasted with the straps of her black heels that wrapped halfway up her calves, where they secured themselves with small silver buckles. Her black hair had been tightly waived and curled, tied up in a bun that just begged to be let down. Tilting her half-moon glasses the woman smiled, white teeth glinting against her lightly colored lips.

“Hello, Mr. Stratham.”

He blinked and his eyes turned from the bright screen to her face before drifting downward, then back up. “Who are you?”

“Me?” A light, lilting laugh. “My name is Alison Jace. I was sent to help you prepare for the meeting.”

“Oh, is that right?”

“Why of course!” She spread out the folders on his desk. “It says here that there is tension mounting among the members of the board, so I’m here… to release those tensions.” Her eyes flicked up, long lashes thick and dark, and she leaned across the desk to get closer to him.

Lee grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Well, I guess I have a few minutes to spare. Exactly how are you going to ‘release those tensions’…?”


“Good job, Kirrah. Darling,” Leon added, leading a certain Miss Alison Jace down the steps towards the street with one arm wrapped about her waist.

“Why thank you,” Kirr murmured, drawing off the half-moon glasses from her face and wiping the already-smeared lip gloss off with the back of her hand. “Did it go as you planned?”

“Perfectly.”

“YOU!”

The two of them swiveled around; a very disheveled Lee Stratham was at the top of the stone stairs, hair standing up and eyes wide, a .44 colt held in two trembling hands, two fingers wedged against the trigger.

“Stop right there, Leon! And…and your little fucking whore, too!”

Kirr straightened considerably at the insult, and shivered. Inwardly she wondered why, as she had grown so used to it, but soon shook it off. Now was not the time.

“Now Stratham…let’s be reasonable…”

Leon did not hold her, or move in front of her, or grab her hand and drag her off. He made absolutely no move to protect her. Kirr didn’t expect him to-- care, that is. Somewhere, inside, she held on to the memory of that first time, in The Grace. If she kept imagining it, then maybe she could go back; back to when she was oblivious, back to when things were just starting anew. Back to ignorance. Back to when she didn’t know any better. Back to--





Before she could do anything everything went black and she was falling down
down
down

Down.



She didn’t see her life flash before her eyes, so it must be safe to assume that she hasn’t died.

Yet.

Hopefully.

Her mind meandered down that path for a moment before drearily coming to, bright lights from the ceiling above blinding her unadjusted eyes. Kirr heard herself groan and the back of her hand brushed lightly against her mouth: a remnant of a memory that she can’t quite recall. She can recall other things, though; bits of conversations that don’t really make sense and yet do.

“…Let me take her. If you don’t want to take her to a hospital, then at least let me take care of her!”

“…Hmph. Who are you, anyway?”

“Victoria Merriweather. I provide emergency medical care in Northside…”

Kirr sighed and attempted to sit up.

Bad idea. She let loose a cry that echoed against the metal walls of the ambulance and clutched her side, twisting the wound and causing her to scream in pain. Again. The doors to the back clattered open and in stumbled the girl from the café-- What was her name? Vic?-- which, for some reason, didn’t surprise her. Kirr blinked, studying her. The girl’s dyed hair looked a bit more mussed than when she saw it at the café, but that wasn’t too much of a surprise, either.

“So, how are you feeling?” Vic asked, sitting down on the bench beside the stretcher she’s laid out on. “I’m Victoria. Prefer Vic, though. I thought I’d keep an eye on you when I spotted you at The Grace…”

“Where’s Leon?”

“At…” She fishes for a piece of paper in her jean jacket pocket and looks at it. “…The Hyatt Regency. Penthouse level.”

Kirr attempted to push herself off of the stretcher before keeling over and lying down perpendicular to it, legs hanging off. “I-- I need to get back to him--”

“Absolutely not.” Vic sighed and stood, bent slightly over due to the lowness of the ambulance ceiling, and helped her back up on the makeshift bed. “You’ve got to heal up a bit, first. I think you’ll be staying overnight at least.”

Kirr’s eyes didn’t meet hers. “I… I can’t. Leon will be mad. I know him.”

“Oh, relax. I had to swear that I would bring you back when you were all right or he would-- how did he put it-- ‘sue my ass’.” Vic sat down again and leaned against the rail of the stretcher, looking up at Kirr with eyes so filled with honesty that she was taken aback. “Kirrah, is it? How old are you?”

“…Twenty-eight.”

“Well, Kirrah Chekov who is twenty-eight…” A sigh. “…stop punishing yourself.”

“What?”

“I don't see a reason why, but you’re trying to suffer. I can tell.” Vic rolls her eyes and nudges her in the side. “What did you ever do that makes you think you deserve to punish yourself?”

Kirr didn’t answer.

“Must’ve been something bad,” she said.

Still nothing.

“It’s all right,” Vic finally conceded. “You don’t have to tell me--”

“--I was a jerk.” Kirr shrugged. “I woke up, and there was no one there, and I…”

Vic’s soft laughter made Kirr jump, then cringe as the wound in her side rubbed the wrong way.

“Hun, we’re all jerks at some point. We all say things we don’t really mean; of course, sometimes we do mean them, and the afterthought hurts all the more. Whatever happened-- I won’t push-- all I’ve got to say is… We’ve all got our scars, but they’re not something to punish yourself for. It’s not worth it.”

She touched Kirr’s wound, then her chest.

“It’s not worth this.”

When Vic’s fingers tapped Kirr’s heart a tear fell and hit her nail, so hot that it evaporated almost as soon as it splashed onto her skin. And another. And another. Victoria chuckled, but not meanly; rather, it was the opposite of such, radiating warmth and comfort.

“He never told you that you were beautiful, did he?”

Kirr shook her head, more tears running down her cheeks, like trails of liquid fire.

“Well he should. You deserve that much.” Vic smiled, pushing her back down onto the pillow gently. “Get some sleep. You’ll need it.”

Kirr looked up at the Angel of Drummond Street with pleading, glassy eyes. “You’ll be there when I wake up, right?”

Don’t leave. Please don’t leave. I don’t want to be alone again. Don’t let me be alone again.

“…Yeah. Of course. Good night.”


The next morning Kirr awoke to the sounds of passing cars and blaring horns, and the clattering of metal against metal within the ambulance. Nausea rolled over her and she clutched at her side instinctively; it had been newly dressed and didn’t hurt as much, though, leaving her only sickeningly numb. Numb, and something else she had never experienced yet.

She was afraid. Terrified out of her mind, actually. It hit her, exactly what he had made her do in the past few years, with the force of a freight train, and she didn’t want to go back. She didn’t want to go back to Leon. No. Anything but that--

“We’re here. All ashore that’s going ashore.”

She hadn’t realized that the ambulance had stopped, and her heart lurched unexpectedly. Kirr heard Vic step out of the front and open up the back; peering around, she said blatantly, “…This isn’t the Hyatt.”

Vic flashed her a grin. “I know.”

Before her towered the University of Maryland, with its soaring columns and semi-familiar steps… Kirrah stepped down and out, taking Victoria’s hand when she offered to help her. Still a bit shaky on her feet, the young woman clung to the clean white side of the ambulance until she could steady herself.

“Why…?” she breathed.

Vic rolled up her sleeves, revealing pink and faded scars all down the inside of her arms and held them out to Kirr. The skewed slashes patterned her skin like an irregular tally count. “We all have our scars, Kirrah. And if you cut deep enough, then they’ll always be there with you… but sometimes they fade.” The girl put a hand on Kirr’s shoulder. “You just need to be given the time to heal.”

Kirr smiled, a little embarrassed at seeing something so private, and yet so…she felt like crying again but not here, not in public. Before last night, she hadn’t cried since those nights at the hospital. A vague thought that Leon might find her again anyway and Vic would be in serious trouble crossed her mind, but it was brushed away like an annoying piece of dust.

Before last night, no one had bothered to give her a second chance, and she wasn’t about to waste it with worrying.

“Thanks… Victoria.”

“No problem, hun.”

Reminiscent of a game played not so long ago, Kirr looked at Vic’s hand on her shoulder and lifted her own, placing it the padded shoulder of the other girl’s jean jacket. Her smile this time seemed sad, but it must have been a trick of the bright winter sunlight because when Kirr blinked the strange look was gone.

“Take care of yourself.”

“I will.”

Kirr turned around, eyes a bit more hopeful. Maybe they still had openings for an acting class...

With that she began to walk, and didn’t look back.