Page 290 of The Wishing Game

SIXTY

Iwake up with a start, drenched in sweat. Glancing down at myself, I note I'm still in my shift, the material almost sheer from perspiration. As I swing my legs over the bed to head to the bathroom, a pounding headache assails me—one that nearly brings me to my knees.

Oh, damn it!

Memories of last night start flooding my mind, as well as fragments of that odd dream.

God, I drank far too much, didn't I? So much so that I... My eyes widen in disbelief as I recall being in bed with Ze and... I pat myself down. My shift is intact. I'm not naked. Nothing happened, right? I could have sworn he tore the material, but maybe that was also just a dream? Guiltily, I have to admit to myself that maybe I've been spending too much time with him and that has affected my perception of him. I care about him, of course, but our relationship can't be more—itwon'tbe more. Perhaps that dream was also a reflection of that—the dilemma of being torn between two men. Being committed to one but also wanting the other...

My eyes widen, my hands gripping the wall for support as I realize I just admitted to myself that I want Ze. That...

No, no. This is impossible. We are friends.Justfriends.

I'm married!

In the dream, too, I was engaged to someone else while dallying with another man—one that I had strong feelings for as far as I recall. The details may be fuzzy, but the emotion still echoes in my chest.

God, I'm a mess!

I hunch my shoulders in defeat as I enter the bathroom, my first stop being the sink to brush my teeth. The taste of alcohol is still in the back of my throat. In fact, as I sniff myself, I note that I'm also in dire need of a shower. The smell of alcohol is everywhere.

With a weary sigh of a person with one hell of a hangover, I lift my shift over my head and dump it in the dirty clothes basket before heading to the shower.

But as I walk across the bathroom, I catch my reflection in the mirror. I stop in my tracks as my eyes glaze over my body.

What?

I take a step closer to the mirror, tracing the smooth skin on my chest and arms. For the first time in as long as I can remember, there's no mark. Nothing except a small black spot over my right breast. I narrow my eyes at it. It's a star with fourteen sharp edges. In the middle, there's a tiny dot surrounded by one bubble on each side that contains a symbol similar to the ones I previously had on my skin.

Yet aside from that small mark on top of my breast, my skin is unblemished. There's nothing on my belly or on my thighs. Nothing at all.

"What the hell?" I mutter, utterly stupefied.

Those marks have stained my skin for so many years, I cannot even remember what I looked like without them. They were a bad memory as much as they were a core part of my identity. Because you can't have the good without the bad. You can only appreciate the good when you have the bad contrasting it.

Those marks were evidence of my horrendous past, but most of all, they were proof that I survived.

"Could it be..." I murmur to myself as I turn right and left, studying every inch of my skin. "Could it be that they've disappeared because I've finally come to terms with my past? That I've finally left the ghost of Sergio behind?" I muse aloud, my brows bunched together in consternation.

They appeared the night Sergio hurt me. Maybe they disappeared because my inner wounds have finally healed? That seems like a logical explanation.

But there's one more thing.

A.S.L.'s letter.

Dashing back to my room, I remove it from under the mattress where I hid it. My eyes quickly scan the contents again.

The writing on your skin—it is a promise. There is nothing evil about it, nor is it something to be afraid of. It is a vow written in blood, and in a matter of days, that vow will be fulfilled. When that happens, the mark of a new beginning will arise.

What vow? How was it fulfilled?

And the new mark...what new beginning does it signify?

I read and reread the lines until I know them by heart. But still, I'm no closer to figuring out an answer except that whoever A.S.L. was, he or sheknewabout my marks. And against all odds, they predicted the future. But is it any wonder they did? After all, they had left a letter in a secret place hundreds of years ago, knowing it would somehow end up in my hands.

Who are you? And what are you trying to tell me?

The fact that I'm convinced that A.S.L. speaks the truth now is beside the point as I worry about this new mark and its potential meaning.

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