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A dimly-lit concrete stairwell is a horrible place to have a panic attack.
I manage to make it to the landing one floor below. I slide down the wall, braced by the corner, trembling uncontrollably, panting.
Breathe. Deep breaths, in and out.
But it doesn’t work, because the voice inside my head is Mark’s, and he’s the last person I want to hear right now. I fumble in my bag with shaky hands and find my phone. I don’t realize I’m crying until tears splash my screen and the images blur. I play Lila’s ringtone on a loop.
“Charlie, you’re safe now. No one can hurt you. Listen to my voice, Charlie. You’re safe now. No one can hurt you. Pick up your phone.”
I don’t know how long I sit there, knees pulled to my chest, Lila’s voice echoing off the walls. My teeth are chattering from the cold concrete when I can finally breathe calmly. I mop my eyes and get to my feet, brushing off dust and cobwebs. Chatty female voices drift up to me. I scurry down the stairs past their surprised stares, not stopping until I’m out in the sunshine. I pull on sunglasses and start walking to my hotel.
My phone rings. I glance down and see Mark's name.
Not a chance.
I send it to voicemail.
A few seconds later, it rings again. Mark. I send it to voicemail again. After his sixth call in rapid succession, I turn off my phone and bury it in my shoulder bag.
I rush through the hotel lobby, leaving my sunglasses on and avoiding eye contact. The solitude of my room is a relief. I catch sight of myself in the mirror above the dresser and pause.
I look awful, truly awful. It’s not from the cobwebs clinging to my hair or my coffee-splattered clothes or my tear-stained face. It’s the ghostly pallor and hollowed cheeks and dull eyes with craters beneath them from not sleeping.
My reflection looks every bit as broken and damaged as I feel.
I shower again to rid myself of the pain and grime of the stairwell, lingering until the water turns cold. I swipe steam off the fogged glass and, for once, face myself in the mirror, unclothed. There’s no point in hiding, not after this morning.
I angle my body slightly, pulling my wet hair in front as I look over my shoulder at my back. Rope-like purple scars criss-cross my back from shoulder to hip, mingling with thinner, cord-like lavender ones. The wider scars were caused by the leather strips of their whip; the thinner ones were from the razor wire. Between and beneath my shoulder blades is a flat white scar, intricate swoops and curlicues forming letters that stretch across my back. A phrase.
That phrase.
I face forward. These scars are less vivid but certainly noticeable. My breasts sport an assortment of thin white streaks, mutilations from a rusty boning knife. A long vertical scar trails down my abdomen from my emergency surgery after my rescue, and a collection of pale pink scars mars my inner thighs. They reach higher, too.
Their mutilation wasn’t just confined to the outside of my body.
I swallow hard. Discordant mauve patterns encircle my wrists, a consequence of being trussed up with barbed wire and suspended from an overhead pipe. Other scars freckle my body, but none significant enough to demand attention. My face is unscarred, though I do have a bump on the bridge of my nose and a slight ridge along my left cheekbone from fractures.
I wonder what it would be like to no longer hate my reflection. I can’t even remember what my body looked like before, when I took normalcy for granted.
I’ve spent the last four years hiding these scars, not just from the world, but from myself. I conceal my wrists with stacked bracelets of beads and leather, only removing them to shower. You’ll never catch me wearing a swimsuit or tank top or sports bra. I wear loose tops that cover everything. Outside of healthcare providers, only two people have seen my scars. Lila saw them from the beginning because she and I endured hell together, recovered together, and lived together. Mark saw my injuries when he rescued me and later, when he came to my side at Walter Reed.
He knew what the brand on my back meant before I did, but he refused to tell me. I had to force my doctor to tell me what it meant.
The same man who tried to shield me from their vile slurs called me that name today. Bellowed it, actually, to ensure I — and everyone else in the vicinity — heard it.
My hotel room is suddenly suffocating. I dress quickly in leggings and a long shirt, twist my hair up, and grab my bag, hiding my red eyes behind sunglasses.
Walking helps. I match my breathing to the cadence of my steps. Inhale for four, hold for four, exhale for four. I find myself at a park and sink onto a bench near a splashing fountain. The bubbling water sounds like a mountain stream if I close my eyes, and I can feel its mist on my skin. Carefree children play on swings and slides, and I envy their happiness as they chase each other and twirl with abandon. I watch them, unable to stop my tears. Tears for everything Mark has lost. Tears for what I’ve lost. Tears for damage done. Despite the warmth of the Texas spring day, I can’t shake my bone-deep chill.
I abhor crying. I was never the teary type before those bastards tortured me. Now I cry so often, there are days I swear I’m going to mildew. I lift my eyes to find two women on a nearby bench, watching me cry with concerned expressions. My disgust at my weakness strengthens my resolve and squares my shoulders.
Get it together.
Trauma makes you lash out. Hurt inflicts more hurt. You know this.
Mark helped you. It’s your turn to help him.
He didn’t mean what he said, no matter how deeply it hurt.
