Scarred

Chapter 9

Both Paige and Andre stared at me with their mouths gaping open.

"He what now?" Andre asked.

"You what now?" Paige asked.

"I vandalized his car, and now he's trying to find evidence so he can sue me," I repeated.

"I cannot belive this," Paige said. "A, why the hell would you do that? And B, can he even sue you?"

"I did it because he's a heartless bastard," I said. "And no, not unless someone else claims me."

"So you're good, right?" Andre said. "No lawsuit?"

"Not unless someone claims me," I repeated. "But apparently, I have living relatives that I never knew about that could claim to be my legal guardians."

"But they can't until Robert's dead, right?" Paige asked.

"They can if he signs away his parental rights," I explained. "But he would never file a lawsuit against his own family, right?" I asked, turning to Sam.

"He could," Sam said. "It's possible that there's a relative, maybe a brother or sister, that he hates. He could convince them to claim you and then file the lawsuit."

"But that's insane," I exclaimed.

"It is," Sam agreed. "But it's entirely possible."

"I can't believe this," Paige said. "This is crazy."

"He loved that car to death," I said. They both looked confused.

"How would you know?" Andre said. "I thought you said he left a long time ago."

"He did," I said. "But when I was under house arrest, I had to live with him. You know, because I'm a minor and he's the only parent I have now. Ugh, he this really annoying girlfriend named Lily and-"

"What are you going to do about the lawsuit?" Paige asked, cutting me off.

"I'm going to wait and see if he gets anyone to claim me," I said. "Then we'll deal with it."

***

I grabbed the knife with shaking hands. I hadn't cut myself in weeks. Sam had distracted me from it. I washed the dried blood off of the knife and took a deep breath. I pulled off my fishnet gloves, which somehow hid the scars on my wrists. I admired the jagged lines that were just starting to heal. I pulled the gloves back on, deciding that there were too many scars on my wrist to do anymore.

I pulled off my shirt to reveal a camisole underneath. I rolled up the camisole, exposing my bare stomach. I grabbing the knife, which was shaking in my hand, and made a small cut on the right side. I winced at the pain. I saw a drop of blood trickle down my stomach, followed by a long trail of blood. I grabbed a towel and wiped up the sticky crimson blood. I held the towel against the wound, wincing again at the sharp stinging.

When the cut had stopped bleeding, I rolled my camisole back down. I pulled my shirt back on over the camisole and washed off the knife. I took the towel, plus a few others that were stained by blood, down to the laundromat. I put a quarter into one of the machines and watched the water spill into the washer, while a single tear slid down my cheek. What had I gotten myself into?