Golden Stars / Scarlett Johansson

Chapter 12: The Weight of Scars

Y/N panted heavily as she relentlessly pounded the boxing bag in front of her. Each hit sent a jolt of energy through her arms, reverberating down to her knuckles as they connected with the canvas. The gym echoed with the dull thuds of her fists, her body moving with precision and strength, the result of years of practice. She came here at least once a week, not just for the workout, but for the release, the outlet it provided. Her body was toned from the countless hours she spent training, her shoulders broad and strong, wider than the average woman's. But Y/N didn't care about appearances. Boxing was her sanctuary, a way to channel the turbulence she tried so hard to suppress. 

Her breath came in short, sharp bursts as she circled the bag, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. She had first taken a boxing class when she was 21, a time when she'd felt powerless in almost every other aspect of her life. Boxing had offered something no other activity could: control. The raw feeling of hitting something, the adrenaline that surged through her with every punch—it was addictive. Calming. It was the only place she could lose herself and still feel grounded.

After a few more punishing hits, her arms began to tremble with exhaustion. Her muscles screamed for rest, her lungs burning for air. She let out a final grunt, slamming her fist into the bag one last time before stepping back, her chest heaving as she caught her breath.

She headed toward the locker room, grabbing her towel and toiletries. Her legs felt like jelly beneath her as she walked, her body both drained and exhilarated. Once inside the shower, Y/N undressed, feeling the cool air hit her skin as she stepped under the warm water. The steam quickly filled the small space, curling around her as the water cascaded down her tired body, soothing her aching muscles.

She stood still for a moment, letting the warmth wash over her, her eyes drifting toward the mirror in front of the shower. It was slightly fogged, but she could still make out the shape of her reflection, the outline of her body. Her eyes dropped to her chest, to the scar that stretched across her skin—a pale, jagged line that ran right down the center. It was the mark of her heart transplant, a constant, unavoidable reminder of everything she had lost. 

Her hand instinctively went to the scar, fingers grazing the rough texture of it. She hated it. She hated how it never let her forget. Her throat tightened, and her vision blurred as tears welled in her eyes. She tried to blink them away, but it was too late—the intrusive thoughts had already begun to creep in, as they always did when she saw the scar. 

'You should have died instead of her.'

The voice, her father's voice, echoed in her mind like a dark shadow. It was always there, lingering in the background, waiting for moments like this to resurface.

---

Flashback:

She was thirteen, sitting on the floor of the living room, her back pressed against the wall as she tried to make herself as small as possible. Her father was pacing in front of her, his face flushed with anger, his words cutting through the air like knives.

"Do you know what you've done?" he spat, his voice shaking with rage. "Do you even understand?"

Y/N's eyes were wide, her heart racing in her chest as she tried to comprehend the weight of his words. She had never seen him like this before, so furious, so consumed by grief. It had been weeks since the accident, but it felt like it had just happened. Every day felt like the same, endless nightmare.

"You killed her," he hissed, stopping in front of her and towering over her small frame. "You—why are you still here? You should've died, not her."

The words hit her like a blow to the chest. She felt her breath catch in her throat, her whole body freezing as the reality of what he had said sank in. She hadn't expected it, not from her father, not from the man who was supposed to love and protect her. But there he stood, looking down at her with eyes filled with nothing but resentment.

Y/N shook her head, her voice trembling. "Dad, I didn't—"

"Don't," he cut her off, his voice low and dangerous. "Don't you dare say another word."

Her mouth snapped shut, tears stinging her eyes as she shrank back further against the wall. She wanted to disappear, to fade into the background and never be seen again. She couldn't bear to look at him, couldn't bear to see the hatred in his eyes.

Her father stepped forward, grabbing her by the arm and yanking her to her feet. "You think you can just stand there, acting like everything's fine? You think I don't know? It's your fault she's gone."

Y/N flinched, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might burst out of her chest. She was too shocked to even cry. His grip on her arm tightened, and she winced in pain, but she didn't dare move.

"Why?" he asked, his voice suddenly quiet, almost pleading. "Why did it have to be her?"

She didn't have an answer. How could she? The accident replayed in her mind every day, every night, every second since it had happened. The screech of tires, the shattering of glass, her mother's scream—and then nothing. Silence. Darkness. And when she woke up, her mother was gone, and she was still here. Alive. 

"Say something," her father demanded, shaking her roughly. "Why aren't you saying anything?"

She couldn't. There were no words. Only the overwhelming, suffocating guilt that weighed down on her chest like a boulder. She had survived. Her mother hadn't. What else was there to say?

Her father's hand came down hard on her cheek, the sound of the slap ringing in her ears. Her head snapped to the side, and for a moment, everything went blurry. She stumbled back, clutching her face, tears spilling down her cheeks.

"I hate you," he whispered, his voice broken. "I hate you for what you did."

Y/N didn't respond. She couldn't. She was too numb, too shattered to even think. She just stood there, frozen in place, as the weight of her father's words settled over her like a suffocating blanket.

---

Back in the present, Y/N's fingers clenched around the edge of the shower stall as the memory faded, leaving her breathless and shaken. The water was still running, the steam thick in the air, but she felt cold. So, so cold.

She pressed a hand to her chest, over the scar, and closed her eyes, willing the tears to stop. But they didn't. They never did.

The weight of her father's words, the guilt she carried, the scar that would never fade—it was all too much. And no matter how many times she tried to wash it away, no matter how many times she stood under the warm spray of the shower, hoping it would cleanse her soul, the pain remained.

Y/N inhaled sharply, trying to steady herself. She couldn't let this break her, not again. She wouldn't. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the memory aside, burying it deep within her once more.

But as she stepped out of the shower, drying herself off, she knew it wouldn't be the last time those words haunted her. It never was.