The Scarred

Prologue

Tick.

"What do you think about your day to day habits?"

Screams flooded her ears, a deep, guttural rumbling playing in the background.

"Nothing of it." A pen scratched away in a notebook.

Tick.

The older woman watched as her eye fluttered about the old wooden floor. "Nothing?"

A cold breeze suddenly reached her numbing skin, her mind unable to comprehend the sensation of an ever true freefall.

"Yes. Nothing." A sigh reached her ears, her right arm coming up to run over the stump that used to be her left.

Tick.

An eye shifted to the clock on the wall. 5:53pm. Another sigh. The pen stopped, then the notebook closed. Hands folded over the leather cover. "I'm afraid that's the end of our session, Miss Miller."

"Of course." Her eye stayed focused on the clock, yet grew more and more distant.

"Miss Miller?" With a sharp inhale and whip of a head, the woman knew she finally caught her attention. "I said that's the end of our session." She raised her eyebrows at the younger female whose eye shifted to the floor once again.

"Right," Her arm pushed her off from her chair, walking - practically stumbling - to the door to grip the knob. It swung shut with a slight thud, a sign of underlying frustration.

Her hands stuffed in her pockets, she started her journey through the woeful streets of the city, her eye dancing around cautiously at those around her. The sky was clouded, gray and foreboding over the already depressive buildings and people. Her shoes softly padded against the gum and puke stained concrete, silent compared to the heels that clacked around her obnoxiously. She felt the faintest amount of joy upon seeing a familiar building, the chipping white brick a comfort.

She followed the steps up to the third floor, keys noisily being shuffled to unlock the door to what she called home. She took a deep inhale, the scent of lavender filling her senses to bring a light smile upon her face. The apartment was small, obviously run down to fit the exterior, but her choice of furniture made it seem somewhat younger. She had spent at least a week removing mold and a few stains, and by the time she had finished it seemed almost brand new. The bleach smell took a while to wear off, but it was worth it to her in the long run.

The living room was just a bit larger than the size of an average bedroom, furnished with a small kitchen, dining table and couch. It was all put together and connected through accents like curtains, family photos and knick-knacks. She quite liked that it was smaller, that everything was visible save for the bedroom and bathroom which had their own separate rooms for obvious reasons. It left little room for any intruders to hide and she knew exactly where everything was, knowing someone had come through should anything have moved in the slightest.

She hung her coat on a hook by the door, kicking off her shoes and throwing her keys on the table. She made her way to the bathroom that connected to her bedroom, clothes thrown in the hamper in the corner. Her nimble fingers grasped at the soft padding that hid the left side of her face and neck, the cotton coming off with ease as she pulled. She chewed on the side of her cheek as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. The once soft, pale skin now uneven, beginning to scar and create discolored skin even where her eye used to be. As they traveled down they seemed to fade, stopping at her mid thigh. Though her arm had received the most damage.

She snuggled under her blankets after a soothing shower, the soft warm glow of her bedside lamp illuminating the area just enough to read the book she had recently invested in, Atlas of World History. While others indulged themselves in the words of romance, fantasy and thrillers, she much preferred factual information. Knowledge. To her, even the smallest bit of information that seemed useless could possibly save a life at some point.