Page 21 of What Goes Around

When the ophthalmologist lifted the gauze a few weeks in, all I saw was a washed-out cloud of light.

“Some vision may return,” he said gently.

I didn’t believe him.

He didn’t believe himself.

By week five, most of the bandages came off.

That was when I truly saw it.

My face. Or what was left of it.

The skin looked tight and glossy, stretched in angry shades of red and pink. My eyebrow on that side was gone. My cheek looked… melted. Pulled. Wrong.

Monster was the only word that came to mind.

By week six, the surgeon told me, “You’re medically stable for discharge. Follow-ups are scheduled. You’ll need ointments, sun protection, and physical therapy.”

I left the hospital alone. Called a cab. Kept my head turned away from the driver so he wouldn’t stare.

The seatbelt scraped across the tender skin on my chest, and I bit down hard on my lip to keep from making a sound.

My apartment complex looked exactly the same.

I didn’t know why that surprised me.

Trauma didn’t scorch buildings. It only scorched people.

I climbed the stairs slowly, every step tugging at the raw skin beneath my bandages. I reached my door, dug out my key, and—

It didn’t fit.

I tried again. The lock wouldn’t turn.

Then I saw it.

A piece of paper taped crookedly across the door:

Unit Cleared. Locks Changed. Contact Management for Further Information.

And underneath, in smaller print:

Eviction enforced following prior warning. Tenant belongings removed as per terms.

My stomach dropped straight through the floor.

My things.

My clothes.

Every piece of my life.

Gone.

My throat tightened until breathing felt like swallowing broken glass.

I couldn’t break down. Not here. Not where people could see.