The Scarring
By
A.J. Brown
On the bed lay the drunken man, his eyes wide and blood shot. They darted from side to side. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, but he only managed a few strangled croaks. His arms and legs were bound to the bedposts with ropes. He was as naked as the day he came into the world.
“Do you hate?”
“Yes.”
#
The first scar came at the age of eleven, courtesy of an angry father and a bottle of whiskey. He had ducked when the old man threw the bottle. It shattered against the wall, slivers of glass spraying back at him, along with the remainder of the caramel-colored liquid.
He probably wouldn’t have been scarred if only small pieces of glass had pricked his skin. If not for the old man’s follow-up to the bottle toss, he would have been just fine. But the old man chased the broken glass like a beer at a drinking party, and the smack to the back of the head was unseen. He—Nothing was his name—went sprawling forward, hands out in front of him, a slight sting on the back of his head. A gash appeared from mid-forearm to elbow when he landed among the shattered glass.
Nothing bled. He cried, and, as he did so, his father wailed on him, telling him to “Clam it up, boy, or I’ll clam it up for you.”
Mom stitched him up with a sewing needle and thread as thick as fishing line. Nothing wasn’t sure which was worse, the initial slice of skin by glass, or the constant poke of the needle and tug of thread.
The skin puckered over time, leaving a pink welt of flesh that grew as he grew, never shrinking, and a constant reminder of that night.
#
He stood in a brightly lit room, a young lady in front of him. She used to be afraid of what she was about to do, but no longer. He knew of her fear, of how the blood made her squeamish at first. Her blue eyes held determination in them, or maybe it was desperation. If Nothing had to wager a guess, he would bet the house on desperation, a fear of the heart keeping her there with him. For that he could love her forever.
“Do you hate?” she asked.
“It’s all I know.”
#
His name hadn’t always been Nothing, though it seemed as if it were. He couldn’t recall what it had been before the whiskey bottle incident. He just knew how his father thought of him, how he spoke of him; what the bastard called him all those years of his childhood.
“You’re nothing, boy. You’re nothing to me. You’ll always be nothing.”
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing, you son-of-a …
“I am Nothing,” he told himself. “I will always be Nothing.”
#
“Do you hate?” she asked.
“It’s what I do.”
He looked down at his naked body. Grooved indentions and pink puckered skin riddled his flesh, as if they were mountain ridges and deep valleys on a map of flesh. He could recall where each one came from. The one on his right forearm to the elbow was obvious; the four on his right knuckles came from a set of braces in another kid’s mouth a couple years later. The one on the middle finger of the same hand was from a bottle opener he lost his grip on. The one to the left of his stomach—on the fleshy part of his side—came from a bullet. The exit wound on his back was twice the size. He wished he had died on that one. The several scars on the left of his jaw and neck and shoulder and both palms of his hands were from the windshield he went through. No seatbelt or airbags and a lot of anger led to the telephone pole. His car lost that game of chicken; his body took the brunt of the damage when he was propelled from his seat, through the glass and on to the top of the car. The ones on his legs were self-inflicted. Knives, glass, nails, whatever was handy at the time. The ones on his backside were all Dad-induced.
The last of the scars, the ones on his left cheek, right calf and below his right eye were put there by the girl—Lena—a lost soul like himself, searching for love in all the wrong places, never finding it until Nothing came along. Even then, what was love without pain?
He hid the scars growing up. Long shirts, even during the summer months, kept them a secret. His shirt would never come off at the swimming hole at Grover’s Pond, even when cute little Sally Evans wanted to skinny dip with him. He walked away, embarrassed by the marks left by belts and plastic and pvc pipes and rose bush switches, complete with thorns that tore ragged holes in the backs of his legs and torso and arms…
“Why do you hate?”
“It’s who I am, who he made me to be.”
That was then, when he was a scared kid, hiding from a drunken dad with crazy eyes and a quick temper. Now … now, he wore them proudly, his face like tanned leather except for the areas that were pink or white and raised or sunken in. They were like tattoos for him—an art that most who don't understand them couldn't appreciate.
“They give you character,” Lena said on their first night together.
They were in the dark. Though unseen, they could be felt, and she ran her fingers along the ones on the side of his face, even after he said, 'don't.' He could love her for that, too—for not being afraid the way so many others were.
“Let me see.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Just no.”
#
He stared at her. Inside, he felt something, but outside … outside he showed nothing. She stood in front of him and waited for him to tell her what to do. She had helped him before, all because he wished her to, and that wish made her want to. Yet another reason to love her, and he gathered the something inside that he felt involved her.
“Are you ready?” Nothing asked.
She nodded.
He handed her the nail … and he remembered her reaction …
It took a year for him to show her everything, the scars given by others and the ones done by himself. Her reaction was everything.
She didn't look away. She didn't blink or flinch or gag in disgust.
Lena wept.
And he fell …
“Do you love?” she asked.
“No.”
#
Mom died from fourteen blows to the head and body by a crowbar. There was hair and blood and bone fragments on the walls, floor, and ceiling, as well as the couch where she had been sleeping when Dad came home drunk and angry. Nothing saw the rage, his almost purple face, the crazed eyes; Mom’s flesh as it tore away, and the blood … so much blood.
Dad left the house—staggered, really—and came back later with a friend, some trash bags, tape, and shovels. They left with her body wrapped in the liners and taped shut. Before they could do that, Nothing had touched the ruined flesh of his mom, poked a finger into a shattered eyeless socket. When he pulled it away, he sliced the tip on fractured bone. Pain followed, sharp and sudden. Nothing stared at the jagged wound. He marveled at the glistening red fluid seeping down the finger to the hand and passed the wrist.
Three weeks later a white indention remained.
#
“Do you love?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Love is weak.”
She took the nail. The tip had been sharpened.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Yes.”
A nod. A smile.
She lifted the nail.
Nothing turned his back to her.
“Are you ready?” he asked his father, the man who could only feel hate and taught that lesson well. Dad shook his head, a shaky side-to-side gesture, and tugged at his bindings.
Nothing picked up a bottle from the table, an amber liquid inside. He smashed it on a cinder block on the floor. The world danced a slow waltz as glass exploded, and whiskey splattered. For a moment, he was a kid again and ducking away from a thrown bottle seconds before he would get his first scar. He lifted the broken bottleneck to his face, stared at the jagged edges. He stepped on the shards and felt no pain.
“Do you love?” Lena asked.
“No.”
The nail pierced his left shoulder. The pain was instant and blinding. It took his breath away and made his knees weak. He swung the bottleneck down, a reaction to the immense pain, opening a gash in Dad's left cheek.
His old man screamed.
“Do you love?” she asked again.
“No,” he growled.
The nail went into his left shoulder again, striking nerve and bone. He screamed and swung the broken bottle down. Dad's chest opened, the white of the breastplate showing through blood spray. Dad's turn to scream.
“Do you love?” she yelled.
“No!”
Pain—hot and blistering—ripped through his left bicep. He followed it with another slash of the bottle.
“Do you love?”
“No!”
Pain.
“Do you love?”
“No!”
Blood.
“Do you love?”
“No!”
Torn flesh.
“Do you love?”
“No!”
His blood was hot and sticky and rolling down his back and side and arm. With each heartbeat, pain traveled through him. With each driven nail, he brought the bottle down harder, scarring his father's body in strokes of hurt and anger until the old man’s screams tapered off, and eventually ceased.
“Do you love?”
He looked at the mutilated body of his childhood tormentor. The man was unrecognizable except for the hateful eyes that blankly stared through Nothing. The sheets and wall were blood soaked. As was the floor. Suddenly drained of all energy, he blinked away a life full of pain and scars.
Nothing turned to her. Like him, she was naked and covered in red.
He smiled, one of relief, of a weight having been lifted, stretched across his face.
“Yes.”
A.J. Brown is a southern-born writer who tells emotionally charged, character driven stories that often delve into the darker parts of the human psyche. Most of his stories have the southern country feel of his childhood.
Though he writes mostly darker stories, he does so without unnecessary gore, coarse language, or sex.
More than 200 of his stories have been published in various online and print publications. His story Mother Weeps was nominated for a Pushcart Award in 2010. Another story, Picket Fences, was the editor’s choice story for Necrotic Tissue in October of 2010. The story, Numbers, won the quarterly contest at WilyWriters.com in June of 2013.
If you would like to learn more about A.J. you can check out his blog, Type AJ Negative. You can also find him on Facebook (ajbrown36).
By
A.J. Brown
On the bed lay the drunken man, his eyes wide and blood shot. They darted from side to side. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, but he only managed a few strangled croaks. His arms and legs were bound to the bedposts with ropes. He was as naked as the day he came into the world.
“Do you hate?”
“Yes.”
#
The first scar came at the age of eleven, courtesy of an angry father and a bottle of whiskey. He had ducked when the old man threw the bottle. It shattered against the wall, slivers of glass spraying back at him, along with the remainder of the caramel-colored liquid.
He probably wouldn’t have been scarred if only small pieces of glass had pricked his skin. If not for the old man’s follow-up to the bottle toss, he would have been just fine. But the old man chased the broken glass like a beer at a drinking party, and the smack to the back of the head was unseen. He—Nothing was his name—went sprawling forward, hands out in front of him, a slight sting on the back of his head. A gash appeared from mid-forearm to elbow when he landed among the shattered glass.
Nothing bled. He cried, and, as he did so, his father wailed on him, telling him to “Clam it up, boy, or I’ll clam it up for you.”
Mom stitched him up with a sewing needle and thread as thick as fishing line. Nothing wasn’t sure which was worse, the initial slice of skin by glass, or the constant poke of the needle and tug of thread.
The skin puckered over time, leaving a pink welt of flesh that grew as he grew, never shrinking, and a constant reminder of that night.
#
He stood in a brightly lit room, a young lady in front of him. She used to be afraid of what she was about to do, but no longer. He knew of her fear, of how the blood made her squeamish at first. Her blue eyes held determination in them, or maybe it was desperation. If Nothing had to wager a guess, he would bet the house on desperation, a fear of the heart keeping her there with him. For that he could love her forever.
“Do you hate?” she asked.
“It’s all I know.”
#
His name hadn’t always been Nothing, though it seemed as if it were. He couldn’t recall what it had been before the whiskey bottle incident. He just knew how his father thought of him, how he spoke of him; what the bastard called him all those years of his childhood.
“You’re nothing, boy. You’re nothing to me. You’ll always be nothing.”
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing, you son-of-a …
“I am Nothing,” he told himself. “I will always be Nothing.”
#
“Do you hate?” she asked.
“It’s what I do.”
He looked down at his naked body. Grooved indentions and pink puckered skin riddled his flesh, as if they were mountain ridges and deep valleys on a map of flesh. He could recall where each one came from. The one on his right forearm to the elbow was obvious; the four on his right knuckles came from a set of braces in another kid’s mouth a couple years later. The one on the middle finger of the same hand was from a bottle opener he lost his grip on. The one to the left of his stomach—on the fleshy part of his side—came from a bullet. The exit wound on his back was twice the size. He wished he had died on that one. The several scars on the left of his jaw and neck and shoulder and both palms of his hands were from the windshield he went through. No seatbelt or airbags and a lot of anger led to the telephone pole. His car lost that game of chicken; his body took the brunt of the damage when he was propelled from his seat, through the glass and on to the top of the car. The ones on his legs were self-inflicted. Knives, glass, nails, whatever was handy at the time. The ones on his backside were all Dad-induced.
The last of the scars, the ones on his left cheek, right calf and below his right eye were put there by the girl—Lena—a lost soul like himself, searching for love in all the wrong places, never finding it until Nothing came along. Even then, what was love without pain?
He hid the scars growing up. Long shirts, even during the summer months, kept them a secret. His shirt would never come off at the swimming hole at Grover’s Pond, even when cute little Sally Evans wanted to skinny dip with him. He walked away, embarrassed by the marks left by belts and plastic and pvc pipes and rose bush switches, complete with thorns that tore ragged holes in the backs of his legs and torso and arms…
“Why do you hate?”
“It’s who I am, who he made me to be.”
That was then, when he was a scared kid, hiding from a drunken dad with crazy eyes and a quick temper. Now … now, he wore them proudly, his face like tanned leather except for the areas that were pink or white and raised or sunken in. They were like tattoos for him—an art that most who don't understand them couldn't appreciate.
“They give you character,” Lena said on their first night together.
They were in the dark. Though unseen, they could be felt, and she ran her fingers along the ones on the side of his face, even after he said, 'don't.' He could love her for that, too—for not being afraid the way so many others were.
“Let me see.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Just no.”
#
He stared at her. Inside, he felt something, but outside … outside he showed nothing. She stood in front of him and waited for him to tell her what to do. She had helped him before, all because he wished her to, and that wish made her want to. Yet another reason to love her, and he gathered the something inside that he felt involved her.
“Are you ready?” Nothing asked.
She nodded.
He handed her the nail … and he remembered her reaction …
It took a year for him to show her everything, the scars given by others and the ones done by himself. Her reaction was everything.
She didn't look away. She didn't blink or flinch or gag in disgust.
Lena wept.
And he fell …
“Do you love?” she asked.
“No.”
#
Mom died from fourteen blows to the head and body by a crowbar. There was hair and blood and bone fragments on the walls, floor, and ceiling, as well as the couch where she had been sleeping when Dad came home drunk and angry. Nothing saw the rage, his almost purple face, the crazed eyes; Mom’s flesh as it tore away, and the blood … so much blood.
Dad left the house—staggered, really—and came back later with a friend, some trash bags, tape, and shovels. They left with her body wrapped in the liners and taped shut. Before they could do that, Nothing had touched the ruined flesh of his mom, poked a finger into a shattered eyeless socket. When he pulled it away, he sliced the tip on fractured bone. Pain followed, sharp and sudden. Nothing stared at the jagged wound. He marveled at the glistening red fluid seeping down the finger to the hand and passed the wrist.
Three weeks later a white indention remained.
#
“Do you love?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Love is weak.”
She took the nail. The tip had been sharpened.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Yes.”
A nod. A smile.
She lifted the nail.
Nothing turned his back to her.
“Are you ready?” he asked his father, the man who could only feel hate and taught that lesson well. Dad shook his head, a shaky side-to-side gesture, and tugged at his bindings.
Nothing picked up a bottle from the table, an amber liquid inside. He smashed it on a cinder block on the floor. The world danced a slow waltz as glass exploded, and whiskey splattered. For a moment, he was a kid again and ducking away from a thrown bottle seconds before he would get his first scar. He lifted the broken bottleneck to his face, stared at the jagged edges. He stepped on the shards and felt no pain.
“Do you love?” Lena asked.
“No.”
The nail pierced his left shoulder. The pain was instant and blinding. It took his breath away and made his knees weak. He swung the bottleneck down, a reaction to the immense pain, opening a gash in Dad's left cheek.
His old man screamed.
“Do you love?” she asked again.
“No,” he growled.
The nail went into his left shoulder again, striking nerve and bone. He screamed and swung the broken bottle down. Dad's chest opened, the white of the breastplate showing through blood spray. Dad's turn to scream.
“Do you love?” she yelled.
“No!”
Pain—hot and blistering—ripped through his left bicep. He followed it with another slash of the bottle.
“Do you love?”
“No!”
Pain.
“Do you love?”
“No!”
Blood.
“Do you love?”
“No!”
Torn flesh.
“Do you love?”
“No!”
His blood was hot and sticky and rolling down his back and side and arm. With each heartbeat, pain traveled through him. With each driven nail, he brought the bottle down harder, scarring his father's body in strokes of hurt and anger until the old man’s screams tapered off, and eventually ceased.
“Do you love?”
He looked at the mutilated body of his childhood tormentor. The man was unrecognizable except for the hateful eyes that blankly stared through Nothing. The sheets and wall were blood soaked. As was the floor. Suddenly drained of all energy, he blinked away a life full of pain and scars.
Nothing turned to her. Like him, she was naked and covered in red.
He smiled, one of relief, of a weight having been lifted, stretched across his face.
“Yes.”
A.J. Brown is a southern-born writer who tells emotionally charged, character driven stories that often delve into the darker parts of the human psyche. Most of his stories have the southern country feel of his childhood.
Though he writes mostly darker stories, he does so without unnecessary gore, coarse language, or sex.
More than 200 of his stories have been published in various online and print publications. His story Mother Weeps was nominated for a Pushcart Award in 2010. Another story, Picket Fences, was the editor’s choice story for Necrotic Tissue in October of 2010. The story, Numbers, won the quarterly contest at WilyWriters.com in June of 2013.
If you would like to learn more about A.J. you can check out his blog, Type AJ Negative. You can also find him on Facebook (ajbrown36).