Sandstorm {Discontinued}{Rewritten}

12. Leave it to the Arsonist to be Brutally Blunt.

When Deserey woke up, the first thing she noticed was a blue parka standing over her. She blinked, wondering when the boys had gotten back from their mission. (At some point she vaguely remembered hearing Sara and Kendra talking about Ray going with the two crooks to steal some magical dagger or something.)

“Morning, sunshine,” Leonard drawled. Her first instinct was to glance down at her wrists, which were uncovered, clear to anyone who looked at them. Deserey tried to move them, to hide them, but the restraints stopped her from doing so.

Looks like she couldn’t run, either.

Leonard glanced down at her wrists too, but his gaze didn't linger too long. Almost like he knew she didn't want people to see them…

“Why?” he asked her, his eyes piercing hers. It felt like he could see into her soul.

“Did Sara recruit you?” Deserey asked, her face burning. Had Sara played her? After everything, she had betrayed her already?

“Well, duh. But not for the reasons you think.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, too miserable to put the pieces together on her own.

Leonard rolled his eyes. She glared back at him. “What?” she demanded.

Instead of answering, he pulled up the sleeves of his parka, broadcasting his own scars for the world to see. Except it was Deserey instead of the entire population.

“Oh,” she muttered. “So…” She trailed off, not even bothering to finish the sentence. What was she supposed to say anyway?

“Yep. I’m sure I was supposed to give you some encouraging speech about how it’s bad and shit, but I’m not gonna. Basically, you shouldn’t do that as much as you likely do ‘cause you’ll kill yourself, but that’s the goal for you, isn’t it?”

Deserey stared at him. How did he know that?

“Some of your scars are deeper than others,” he explained. “I looked through them while you slept.”

No, that wasn’t creepy at all. Deserey gave him a look to let him know her opinion about that. But she didn't say anything. She couldn't bring herself to speak, because she knew the moment she tried to say something she'd break down like a little kid.

“Just curious, but why? My depression is because my dad beat the shit outta me, but there are different cases.”

“It's...a long story,” Deserey shrugged. “I don't really want to talk about it.”

“Well, tough luck, ‘cause I ain’t leaving ‘till you do.”

“Then you’ll stay here for a while.”

Deserey couldn’t say she hated the idea, though. It was nice to have someone who cared for once.

“It's a time ship,” he reminded her. “We've got all the time in the world.”

She hesitated, looking him up and down. “I'm not sure you could understand…” She started picking at her fingernails. “I didn't grow up in a good place. I mean...I guess it could have been worse. At least I had a roof over my head and a good family but…” She shrugged. “Kids are mean in the eighth grade. Especially in a town full of racist morons...And I know I sound like I'm just playing the race card but...that's why.

“They made me hate myself. They said everything was wrong with me, not just my skin color. My personality, my family, everything. And it hurt. It still hurts…” She didn't meet his eyes, not really wanting to see his reaction.

When she finally did, she wasn’t met with pity. It was understanding.

“I got made fun of in locker rooms,” Leonard muttered. “People didn’t understand where the bruises came from. They’d make fun of the darker ones, say I was racist. Soon, I was getting beat up not only at home, but at school, too.”