Unmarked

20. Boxing Away Bad Memories

Don't think about the last time I used a knife, not now. Box it away with all the rest. The only problem is, I can only do this for so long before the build-up of traumatic pressure will explode. Then who will help me clear up the mess?

I try to distract myself by counting the various cracks adorning the tiles of these four bathroom walls. It isn't enough to prevent my mind reliving the other times I've had to use a knife. Too many times. But, when you work with the sort of people I do, it's the norm.

Leaving for my first solo delivery, my mum presented me with a switchblade. It had a matt black handle and a small yet sharp silver blade. Dented and worn, she'd always carried it on her until this point. Now, I was taking over the business or the face to face part anyway. It was my turn to carry a weapon for protection.

Our possessions had always been limited, we've never owned much. Another life lesson I learnt early on: don't get attached to objects, you rarely get to take them with you.

If we're lucky, me and my mum plan our relocation and get to take some items with us but more often than not we run. The only thing that comes with us is money and the switchblade. The only family heirloom I know of.

Tucked away in a small bag and strapped to my waistband, I took it everywhere and to every job. It provided me with security, a fraudulent safety net. My ability to use it was debatable. I could open it, otherwise, my expertise in knife work amounted to a big fat nothing. I was honest with myself about this fact so when I was threatened, I would bring out the switchblade along with my fabricated confidence, and combined they would convince people to back off. Most of the time.

On some occasions, it hadn't been a successful deterrent. I don't think about the very last time I used it. The time which was so horrendous it caused me to throw the only family heirloom we had into a river. Instead, I focus on all the previous incidents. They at least were not fatal.

A woman who cornered me demanding my money, a man who seemed to think he was entitled to anything he lay his hands on. More faces, more unjustifiable reasons for their actions.

Every time, I'd swing outwards until it hit their flesh causing a superficial wound then I'd run as they cried out. I'd run all the way back to my mum and we'd leave. Moving to another place, we'd reset our lives again.

We were used to this setup. Every time getting better, more efficient and it got easier. In the physical sense.

Inhaling deeply, I press my palms against my eyes. Get a grip, I need to get it together. A knock is followed Lottie popping her head around the bathroom door. "Oh, Cady."

She crouches down, wrapping her arms around me. For a moment, I allow myself to be comforted. I melt into her warmth and become normal, feeling emotions before containing them to the dark hidden nooks of my brain.

"Let's get you cleaned up." Lottie wipes my eyes with her thumbs.

She looks sad and I wonder if she knows what he said. If she's starting to realise what is going to happen to me. I won't be here for long, I'm being moved on. All of this is leading up to my transfer to a high paying stranger's bed. A stranger, Lars will make a large profit from and I have no say over.

"Don't bother. I'm not going back down there," I mumble.

"Yes, you are, and you're going to show them you are not to be messed with." Lottie grabs some tissue and dabs at my face.

Her face is perfectly serene as she concentrates wiping away the black smeared tears along my cheeks. I lower my eyes, gazing at her large intricate engagement seal: swirls surround intricate flowers, none of which I can identify.

"I choose not to get married," Lottie says, following my gaze.

"Why?" I ask.

"I didn't like him. Actually, I found him repulsive. I'd always been attracted to girls but I didn't tell anyone. When you're told from a young age same-sex relationships are a punishable crime, or an abomination as my parents referred to it, you start to believe it yourself. I always thought there was something wrong with me, and I hoped if I ignored my feelings I could grow to like a man if not love him. I agreed to the engagement but the only problem was the more I met him, the more disgusting I felt knowing what it was all leading to. The thought of him touching me, the idea of living with him for the rest of my life." Lottie's shudders, "He wasn't horrible but he wasn't..." Lottie trails off.

"Female?" I suggest.

Lottie smiles weakly. "Then I met a girl called Alina from work, and we fell in love. She was amazing: confident, crazy smart and funny. She made me feel happy. She helped me accept who I was. The day before I was meant to get married, we ran away." Her hands lower from my face and drop into her lap. "We were caught within hours. She was sentenced to death and some corrupt Official handed me over to Lars, saying it would be a waste to hang me, that I was too pretty to kill. I should have felt relieved but to this day I still wish I'd died with her."

"Shit," I say because no other words seem appropriate, none will bring Alina back or stop the grieving.

Lottie chuckles wryly. "Yeah, but I'm surviving. I have to and so will you. Just try not to lose yourself along the way. It's hard not to let the negative seep in, corrupting us so we turn into bitter and vile individuals. Mariana is a prime example."

Her words ring in my ears because half my problem is who am I? I'm Unmarked. I'm a nobody. My whole existence has been about hiding, making people believe I'm something I'm not. How can I lose myself when I've never known the real me from the beginning?