Unbeautiful, Page 4

  Needing to calm down, I turn to my outlet that has saved me over the last eighteen years. I rip open the box labeled notebooks and retrieve the tattered spiral book on top. Grabbing a pen from my purse, I flop down on the unmade bed in the bedroom and allow my hand to release the pressure trapped inside my chest, release the truth I’ll never be able to tell anyone except for this piece of paper.

  They say my father was a hero.

  That he saved lives.

  He wore a heart of gold.

  In his world,

  a doctor was his calling.

  My mother, she was saint,

  my father’s pillar,

  with a smile so bright, so flawless—

  So perfect.

  She shined for the world.

  Me?

  Most saw me as an angel

  with a halo primed of gold,

  radiating beauty,

  skin of flawless porcelain,

  rounded eyes reflecting the soul.

  Ideally, I was perfect on the outside.

  Which meant I had to be perfect on the inside, as well.

  My heart had to carry warmth.

  It just had to.

  Since beauty only meant good.

  Worth.

  Perfection.

  Little did they know

  the perfection was only an exterior trait.

  Inside, I was flawed.

  Scarred.

  Ruined.

  I carried the darkest of secrets.

  I was dangerous.

  We all were.

  But no one was ever allowed to see that side of me.

  They only saw my beauty.

  My flawless traits.

  My trained behavior.

  It’s all anyone ever wanted to see.

  In everyone’s eyes,

  the three of us created the perfect home,

  the perfect balance.

  The perfect family.

  We fit into the perfect town.

  Perfection was scratched into our walls.

  Engraved into our skin.

  Branded into the minds of everyone who knew us.

  Just how my parents wanted.

  But then there was my brother.

  My brother, he was different.

  He was the cloud that cast shadows

  and darkness over our home.

  Some say that late at night

  he danced with the devil.

  That under the stars and moon

  he stripped himself bare

  for the whole world to behold.

  They said he was a rebel.

  Trouble.

  Broken.

  He diluted our perfection.

  Diluted my mother, the saint,

  my father, the hero,

  and me, with my warm heart

  and halo of gold.

  Perfect was something he’d never be.

  Little did they know,

  even with my brother,

  our walls weren’t so perfect,

  not even close.

  They were created to hide our secrets.

  To never let anyone see

  what truly lay behind closed doors.

  The truth about my family.

  But I saw everything.

  I saw what my father, the hero, did

  when he thought no one was looking.

  And my mother, the saint,

  how she turned her head

  as my brother, who danced with the devil,

  suffered for his sins.

  Most nights, I would close my eyes,

  pretend I was sightless.

  That the world was soundless.

  That perfection did exist.

  But my mother would find me,

  make me listen and see imperfection.

  The secrets we concealed.

  “Open your eyes, Emery.

  The world is only what we believe it is.

  Shut your eyes, and you’re admitting

  that our perfection doesn’t exist.

  That you aren’t who we’ve taught you to be.”

  Then she would wait as the walls begged to cave in

  and started to drown me.

  As the cries seeped into my bones,

  split me open,

  bled me out,

  and swallowed me whole.

  Weakly, I would cave.

  Surrender.

  Open my eyes

  and pretend I was blind.

  For eighteen years, I turned my head.

  Played the role my mother wanted me to

  every night as I lay in bed.

  Until that one daring night,

  when I broke the rules for the very first time.

  I jumped out my window and into the night.

  Jumped into the truth about my family.

  Into the truth about the Golden side of town.

  Now I’ve finally escaped,

  moved out of that perfect home.

  Left my family’s secrets behind.

  Left my brother all alone.

  In the late hours,

  as I write in my new room,

  in my new life,

  I stare up at the moon

  and think of my brother,

  my mother,

  and my father

  back at home.

  I can almost convince myself that what my mother said was true.

  That what’s on the outside is all that matters.

  That perfection does exist.

  I can almost believe that everything I saw

  wasn’t real.

  That we really were the perfect family.

  That my father was a hero.

  And my mother was the most faultless saint.

  But the scars inside me convey another story.

  They convey the truth of what really happened

  in that house and in that town.

  What really happened in the late hours

  when people thought no one was around.

  The scars remind me of who I am.

  That I’m not the person people like I am.

  That I’m different.

  That I have darkness.

  Hear voices.

  That, like my brother

  and mother

  and father,

  I’m also a sinner.

  I’m just more discreet.

  By the time I’m finished, my hand is aching, and my heart is slamming in my chest. The secrets I’ve spilled on the page are secrets I vowed to never tell, secrets I could be punished for. Secrets that would out me for what I really am.

  Panicking, I leap from the bed, tear the pages from the spiral spine, and rip them into tiny pieces. Then I throw open the window, toss them into the night, and watch them blow away in the breeze.

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  As I’m shutting the window, I spot a figure in the bushes below. The person stares up at me as the torn pieces of paper flutter through the air like snowflakes.

  Emery, what have you done!

  Terror blasts through me. What if they read what’s on the fragments? Or worse, what if it’s my mother or father watching me? As crazy as the idea sounds, I know them well enough to understand the lengths they would go to in order to protect our family name. Watching my apartment is something I could see them doing.

  God, what have I done?

  I slam the window shut and shove the notebook as far underneath the mattress as I can.

  “Fuck. What am I supposed to do? I just dumped my family secrets right on top of a stranger.” I tug my fingers through my hair and climb back on the bed. Then I lean toward the window and peek down at the ground again.

  He’s picking up the papers and tucking them into his pocket, every single one of them.

  Get those papers back!

  I spring from the bed and rush out of my bedroom to the front door. I need to go out there and get my journal pages back, need to get back my secrets.

  I start to rot
ate the knob but pause. My gaze drifts to the sliding glass door across the living room.

  It’s past curfew.

  I rapidly shake the thought from my head.

  You’re not home anymore, Emery. This was one of the reasons to get out of Ralingford—to escape the rules.

  Summoning a breath, I swing open the door and inch outside. The outdoor lights illuminate a path down the stairway. I close the door behind me and trot down the stairs, but realize halfway down the first flight that I forgot to put on shoes and a jacket. I’m only wearing a tank top and boxer shorts, and even though it’s early summer, the Wyoming night air is chilly. I keep moving downstairs, though, needing to get the papers.

  When I near the second floor, I slam to a halt as a six-foot something, broad shouldered, hoodie-wearing problem emerges in my path. I bring my fingers to my cheek, remembering the guy I stumbled across the night I snuck out of my house. He struck me then dragged me into the bushes near a massive building that centers the Shadow side of town to punish me for being out so late. The people around the building didn’t intervene, because they had their own problems they were dealing with. The torturous things being done to people… God, there was so much darkness… so much evil…

  The sound of the guy stomping up the stairs brings me back to reality. He has a notebook in his hand, and the hood of his jacket is pulled over his head.

  He has to be the guy who picked up my torn journal pages.

  He stops in front of the right door on the second floor and pops the end of a cigarette into his mouth. Once he lights up, smoke circles his face and the air around him as he rests against the doorframe.

  I see three options on how to get the papers back. Option one, I shove him down and steal the papers from his pocket. But I’m not a ninja, so plan one gets immediately scratched. Option two, I could flirt with him until he gives me the pieces of paper. That one seems doable. I’ve charmed a few guys before, including Evan. But this guy is about as far away from a pretty boy as one can get and definitely not Evan, so I’d be way out of my comfort zone.

  That leaves me with option three, which is simply asking him kindly to give them back to me.

  I start down the stairs toward him. As if he senses someone watching him, he glances around. Still near the corner, he can’t see me as easily as I can see him. Wisps of his black hair land in his dark eyes, and silver studs cover his brows and pierce through his lip. His features are beautiful, but he looks rough around the edges, like he has really experienced life and has been scarred by it.

  I get an even better view when he spots me and quickly draws the hood off his head.

  He has the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen, is the first thought that crosses my mind. Then all thoughts float away and evaporate into one clouded thought—Gorgeous.

  He’s not conventionally beautiful at all. He is a dangerous beauty, a potent beauty, an overwhelming beauty. Like a painting so imperfectly put together it creates the most amazingly emotional, perfect piece of art.

  If my mother were here, she’d tell me he was about as imperfect as a person can be: a piercing in his lip, another in his brow, hair as black as ink, eyelashes so long and dark he looks like he’s wearing eyeliner, scars on his neck that declare his imperfection. A rebel, she would say. A disgrace. Someone who needed to be punished, locked up with the key thrown away.

  But, to me, he is art, poetry for the eyes and heart. He is the most terrifyingly beautiful guy I have ever seen. And his scars have to tell a story, a story I want to hear.

  All I can do is stare. All I want to do is stare. Never move my eyes away from this guy and his beauty and the intensity scorching in his eyes. How could I have been so afraid of his kind, so terrified of something just because they look so dangerous? Because he doesn’t seem dangerous like I’ve always been told. He’s just intense.

  Really intense.

  I should probably look away; his gaze is too penetrating. But I can’t break the lock of our gaze as he stares me.

  And stares.

  And stares.

  I should really move. Break the connection from his imperfect perfection. The guy who has my secrets tucked away in his pocket. But, my feet remain fused to the concrete while my heart slams in my chest and my knees start to wobble. The stare is starting to become awkward, but I can’t bring myself to look away.

  Look away, Emery. Look away.

  Finally, I manage to step forward, my lips parting to ask him for the papers back.

  “Hi. I’m Emery Iveryson.” Apparently, my mouth has an idea of its own. “Um, I live upstairs,” I continue rambling, my legs feeling like two wet noodles. “I just moved in like five hours ago.” As a nervous laugh escapes my lips, I want to smack myself in the forehead. What is wrong with me? I’m way off my game.

  The guy tilts his head, lifts the cigarette from his mouth, and his lips quirk. He stares at me as if I’m the most amusing creature he has ever met.

  I tug the bottom of my shirt a little lower as his gaze skims my legs, chest, neck, and face.

  “Um…” Say something! “Do you live here?”

  Ashes scatter and dance in the air, circle around us, and kiss the silence of our stares as I wait for him to say something—anything—to shatter the stillness coming from him.

  But he doesn’t…

  Utter…

  A word.

  Instead, he assesses my body thoroughly. He never actually touches me, yet I feel like he’s brushing his fingers across my skin as his gaze travels across my flesh. Heat singes through my veins. I’m burning up, erupting in flames.

  It’s the most intense moment I’ve ever had.

  I almost don’t want it to end.

  But it needs to.

  I force my gaze away from him and stare at the ground. “Look, did you by chance find a bunch of shredded papers out on the front grass?”

  Again, he doesn’t utter a damn word.

  After a minute ticks by, I lift my gaze to him again. He’s not looking at my body anymore or even at my eyes. He’s looking into my eyes.

  What if he knows?

  What if he read some of the pieces already and knows about me?

  Terrified, I do the only thing I can do.

  I run the hell away.

  Instead of going up to my apartment, I rush past him and down the stairs. When I reach the bottom floor, I realize my mistake. But not wanting to go right back up and risk running into him, I kill time by searching the bushes and ground for stray papers he might have missed.

  Knee deep in twigs and leaves, I make a vow to myself to get my act together. I’m not in Ralingford anymore. I’ll meet different people under different circumstances than I’m used to and need to learn how to be a normal person who can converse with strangers. And no more throwing my secrets out the window. I mean, what if my mother stuck around tonight to watch me like she has for eighteen years of my existence? What if she saw the whole thing?

  I peer around at the parking lot for her black BMW. The car is nowhere in sight, but a black Cadillac with tinted windows and chrome rims is parked near the curb at the front of the apartment. It reminds me of a lot of cars back home that covered the streets at night. Patrol cars, they were called.