Tʜᴇ Pᴀᴛʜ Tᴏ Hɪɢʜɢᴀᴛᴇs

Lᴇᴀᴛʜᴇʀғᴀᴄᴇ

Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 65

"'as dat kid told ye yeh?"

You stepped back, putting your hands on the desk, pushing yourself up, then sitting down. Kicking your legs in the air. "He has." You mumbled.

Jack smiled. Walking out from the doorway, pacing to the centre of the room— arms crossed. "Perfec'. Now forge' wha'ever 'e told ye, mos' of ih was probably nonsense."

Your brows furrowed on their own. "What?"

Jack smiled wider— his yellowish teeth protruding from his lips like gold. "'e told ye ih was 'cause of shrapnel, didn' 'e?"

You nodded, narrowing your eyes. "Something like that yeah."

Jack smiled wider— devious and excitable, lips up and pulled, his crooked stained teeth bursting out his lips.

He had such a look of joy upon his face. Crisp and irreplaceable— mounted on his lips and shining in his slackened eyes. "Nonsense dat was." He chirped, ending his pacing in favour of lifting the dustbin in the corner, digging through it.

You eyed him weirdly. He really wasn't trying to avoid the whole hobo vibe, was he?

He leaned his back against the wall in front of you, opting for you to scoot around and face him, still seated. He had that ecstatically calm look on his face still, his eyes staring into yours, while his hands dug through the bin. "I know ye know dat now, ain't dat righ' doll?"

He pulled out every little piece of paper and unfurled it, examining what it was, then throwing it to the ground. "Wha' did ye tink of da le''ers eh?" He asked, repeating his actions over and over again, his legs crossed as he stood, bin balanced in his arms.

You watched him weirdly, body hunched. He was looking for something, you knew he was.

It wasn't your business yet— you had already found what you were looking for. "She was the reason."

You couldn't imagine what she used. You couldn't image why or the damage she caused to force him to hide his face even years later.

"Go maith." Jack smiled like the Cheshire cat— still digging through the bin.

You couldn't help but wonder, did he even go to the hospital? Did he tell anyone? You and Jack seemed like the only people in the world who knew the real reason. Everyone else fooled by the story ran by the papers. That false saying that it was all to do with a world wider than a single life.

You couldn't image how bad it must have hurt.

Skin is so soft— pudgy across the cheeks. Bloated and squishy, running sharp edges over it must be easy. One end pushing, whilst the skin around pulled. Folding like origami, still soft underneath— just more runny.

How badly was he injured?

Did the corners of his mouth snap? Hacked up and down until his lips were barely attached, his flesh open wide and gaping, begging without his consent to be something, that, for an instant, would hurt no more. Teeth slipping out, the roots twisting, penetrating gums. Would he be able to tell which was spit, and which was blood?

Would he still be able to feel his face at all?

"Afta she cut 'im up, 'e fel' someting 'e never 'ad before."

Would it be hard to chew? To breathe? To see?

What would it feel like? To lose your face. To have the most extreme of outward expressions removed. It would be easy to execute, surely, rugged and shallow. A mask of skin removed in thin patches— leaving a covering of dripping fat on a skull, eyes staring without lids. Would he still feel? With his nerves in the open air. Flag ripped from his face, scalped, flayed, torn to bits like a rodent in a dog park.