Nathan Ween's Short Stories

Scar

The stitched scar had become an inseparable memory throughout Kendall's adolescent because she couldn't forgive herself for letting the burglar enter through the unlocked door. A moment of carelessness had rendered her susceptible to experience PTSD episodes and become an addict to prescription drugs. She wished things didn't have to turn out so messy and violent but the scar on her left arm was the living proof that female vulnerability would never bode well. Sometimes, the throbbing pain fluctuated when she came across men in their forties, six feet tall, ominous face and heavy build, with six packs tattooed into his belly.

The menacing scar came to prove that it outmatched other injuries on her body in every category.The scar ran across her bicep which can stay discreet under a huge t-shirt, a new fashion, along with oversized jeans, shoes, underwear that needed pulling up every now and then. The unknown motive behind the burglar had remained confidential because he didn't desire to just rob her crib; that was just a bonus. No hidden secret that prompted him to stagger through the dark that night where he tumbled his head into the unclean toilet; the weird tastes he hadn't experienced before made him jolt right up, latching onto his olfactory sense was a repulsive smell that came off when he rattled his head.

On the subway, Kendall asked the man standing next to her to hand over the silver, vintage lighter with a distasteful joke. He fulfilled her request but started to inch towards the opposite side of the train, not needing it back. She shrugged and put the lighter inside her pocket. She got free stuff everyday from her job as a zoo keeper; strangers around the world often left their belongings unattended so she kept them safe for them. Most of the time, they were too generous to look for their stuff. So, she'd often go through the bags and find jewelry (fake and real) and cash in dollars. The pain on her arm throbbed to remind her of her bottomless greed. She disposed of the bags and called it a day as she had enough money to pay for booze and a couple movies.

The burglar was more careful this time; he was fortunate to have not woken Kendall in the apartment. He turned around, inept to adapt to the darkness, waddling across the living room void of booze and cigarettes. The TV was still on, playing a Kungfu master movie. Too invested in the outcome of the young Chinese fighter on the TV, the burglar became neglectful of the time. He launched himself from the sofa after looking at the watch. It said five p.m.; the assignment was due last night. He pulled out a steel, glistening knife that could penetrate most surfaces. The sunrise had begun to take place outside the apartment, illuminating part of the rooms nearby the windows. As soon as he turned the knob to get into the bedroom, he recognized the loud, ambient breathing under the blanket. He came forward and profusely jabbed it until the blood poured out. When he disclosed the cover, only a bunch of empty beer cans was staying warm under the blanket.

"You want some booze or perhaps a cigarette?"

The voice from behind startled the burglar and the constant breathing had been creeping up his spine ever since he broke into the apartment. As he turned around, Kendall, without notice, turned his face white for intruding her apartment and overstaying his welcome, her stealing his garrote wire was just returning the uncourtesy. He charged at her with improved eyesight and knife clutched forward with precision. She made a drop-kick at his knee which made him tumble onto the floor. The sharp knife left a crimson whip across his chest before he fell face flat on the carpet.

Kicking the knife away, Kendall wrapped his neck with his garrote and commenced to squeeze it until red tears trailed down his eyes. But he kept wiggling, then he stopped abruptly with eyes closed and limbs relaxed. Thinking he was dead, Kendall left the body on the floor but he curled up to the upright position, drawing a pocket knife from his secret compartment and piercing her left arm. Trailing down from the cut was a waterfall, red as a rose, that dyed the carpet velvet. Running at her with two parallel arms, he faltered again when she jumped up and locked his neck with legs like a scissor, constricting him until his last breath.

The police came to find an empty apartment unkempt with blood, signs of struggles, cheap booze and cigarettes that smelled like microwaved dog food. But the horrifying part was the two-hundred-pound man in a suit dangling in the middle of the room, neck tightened with a single garrote that formed a collar around his neck and connected to the hook in the ceiling. The fake ID was useless to identify the tenant as she had been lying about her true credentials. Previously, she went by Natalie Johnson, a psychology student; or Kim Harrell, a cashier at a local gas station; or most recently, Kendall Smith, a zoo keeper that took care of lost children more than animals.

The alleged murder of the boss's son, who just turned a ripe age of eighteen, made her run from the mafias. He liked hunting, frolocking into the woods by himself, and splaying his legs to a big bear who gnawed his manhood right off. The bullet in his chest was just an act of mercy to rid himself of the pain. They declared her a culprit in his murder and put a price for her head which was worth a whopping half a million dollars. Kendall's life depended on the old, unreliable Corolla car, her main getaway from the threatening bounty hunters. Out of a sudden, the engine made a loud pop and stopped running, which left her idle on the dead freeway shoulder, she exclaimed. "Fuck," and rested her forehead on the wheel.