SKYFALL, Johnny Kavanagh

Circus freak

Maeve's Point of View

The shower helped, they always did.
By the time I got out the tenderness over my ribs had gotten a bit better, but the bruises were still there.
Still purple and blue.

I didn't even look in mirror.
I already knew what I would see.
Scars, jagged and uneven, stretching across my back, down my inner thighs, curling around my neck.
And now, a T shaped one on my abdomen.

I hated them.
I hated the way they made me feel like something broken, something ruined.

Most people recoiled when they saw them.
The polite ones tried to mask it, but I always caught the flicker of horror, the way their expressions would cave.

I used to tell myself I didn't care.
That they didn't matter.
That it was just skin.

But sometimes, when I caught glimpses of them in the mirror, I'd feel that creeping shame slither up my throat and take hold like it had claws.

Tearing my gaze away from the fogged-up glass, I wrapped a towel around my body, twisting another around my damp hair, and stepped into the hallway.

Johnny's room.
That's where my clothes would be.

Edel had probably left them there – I could tell she was the type.
The kind of person who took care of others without being asked.
Without expecting anything in return.

I took a deep breath and headed for the door.

I slipped into Johnny's room, shutting the door behind me.

This time his bed was made, the general clutter was gone, everything was pretty much in order.
If I hadn't known better, I would've thought it was a completely different room.

I spotted my clothes folded neatly on the edge of his bed.

Smiling, I pulled the towel from my hair, running my fingers through the damp strands to shake out some of the excess water.
I let the towel drop from my shoulders, leaving me in just my bra and the fresh pair of leggings I'd managed to slip on.
I reached for my t-shirt, ready to pull it over my head when the door swung open.

I froze.

Johnny stepped in without knocking, his mouth already open like he was about to say something but then he saw me.

Or, more specifically, he saw my back.

The scars.
The bruises.
Shit.

I saw it immediately – the way his whole body locked up.

And for a second – just a second – I thought it was disgust.

My stomach dropped, shame clawing its way up my throat again.
I knew it.
I knew this would happen.

I didn't have to see his face to know what it looked like.
The horror.
The revulsion.
I'd seen it before – on doctors, on teachers, on strangers who thought I wasn't looking.

People aren't supposed to look like that, I remembered one kid whispering years ago at the beach.

I felt the nausea rise in my stomach, my skin crawling under his stare.
Cover it.
Cover it.
Cover it.

I yanked my t-shirt over my head, my movements stiff, clumsy.

"Has no one ever taught you how to knock?" I snapped, my voice sharper than I meant it to be.

Johnny didn't move.
He didn't even blink.

His fists were clenched so tight at his sides that his knuckles had gone white.