Scarred

Four

A/N: so sorry this chapter took awhile!
Happy Halloween!

It was hands down the worst month of her life. Let's recap, shall we?

First, it was having yet again another methed up housemate who also happened to be dealing drugs at the same time. Arthur, Aurelia's ex-housemate, was the only ever normal, decent person she'd lived with in the house since three years ago and yet; even he couldn't tolerate sharing the flat with Pamela, the third occupier of their three-bedroom apartment.

Pamela had been there before any of them ever moved in. She seemed alright at first—an ordinary introvert in her twenties, cooped up in her room nearly all the time. But they say you only really know someone when you live with them, right? True to the phrase, Pamela's massive problem with clutters and hoarding began to exceed beyond the confines of her personal space. Boxes, bags, papers; especially food-related items were often strewn all around the living hall, kitchen and once, Aurelia even found the corpse of half a mouldy sandwich hidden right behind the toiletbowl in the common bathroom, when she volunteered to clean it. She had no clue how that even got there, she'd rather not find out.

It had become quite a routine for new faces to inhabit the rental every few months. She recalled pleading with Arthur, a freelancing handyman, to keep the lease. She swore she'd clean up as best as she could, she even promised they could team up and try to evict Pamela instead. Yet Arthur was determined. His exact words were that living in a tent at the beach would be better than this.

Aurelia sighed as she commuted home, thinking about the disgusting state the house would be in since she'd been out the entire day. It really wouldn't take long. Between Pamela and Ray, she'd be lucky to even be able to push open the front door considering the both of them just couldn't seem to stop it with pizza deliveries or instant cup noodles. It was as if they never learned that there was an actual invention called a trash can!

Other than her living crisis, there was also the fact that she had spent the past two hours on the subway to and fro her workplace because she was told to go home as soon as she stepped into the diner. In essence? She was fired.

She'd thought that her scar would frighten the patrons, so she'd worn a surgical mask she'd kept from the hospital when she got her stitches removed. But her employer told her people would assume she was sick and that wasn't good for a F&B business.

She could somehow understand that, but that didn't meant that she was comfortable taking it off. She could barely look at herself in the mirror anymore. What would people think of if she served their food looking like she had her face sliced open?

The scar was stitched, but was relatively raw and swollen red. Sometimes it even felt like it might tear open again if she wasn't careful about it. She was told it will eventually lighten and blend into her regular skintone; but that might take months, even a year.

If a diner couldn't hire a waitress who wore a mask, there was no doubt she'd lost her job as a bottle girl too. Her face used to be that asset she had, the confidence to work in the nightlife industry where you practically compete with dozens of other gorgeous women with your physical appearance and occasionally, personality. Now? Now she was a freak.

Who would want her? She shook her head. How was she going to pay for her living expenses anymore?

It was times like this she wished she wasn't ever born. What was the point? She was abandoned at the orphanage when she was merely a month old. She was only a product of unprotected sex. Dumped, thrown, left behind by people who thought abortion was a sin and that placing her in a blanket at the door of a children's home was a better solution.