Page 7 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

Outside, San Francisco's evening air hits me with its particular blend of fog, salt, and urban grit. The sidewalk is slick from an earlier mist, reflecting streetlights in broken patterns. I walk alone, hands in my pockets, no particular destination in mind. I don't actually have anyone to meet, no team to discuss particulars with. That'll all happen later this week closer to the conference.

My footsteps echo between the buildings. The image of Sienna's painting, with the window and vibrant outside world, sticks in my mind. I'm in that room. I'm watching everyone else live their lives because I'm not sure how to climb out the damn window and join them.

Around me, the city pulses with energy. Couples walk arm in arm. Friends laugh too loudly. Everyone has an actual connection, actual purpose.

Then there's me. The outsider.

Chapter 3

LONDYN

MY CUBICLE IS A SANCTUARY, at least in this part of Manhattan, which runs on hustle and greed. Outside, the world might be a terrifying place and filled with too many 'what ifs,' but in here, I'm safe and secure. I've arranged my desk so my back is against two walls, giving me a clear view to both entrances to the office space. I can track who comes and goes without being obvious. And the entire office building has plenty of cameras and security guards.

It's a fortress. The security guard downstairs actually checks IDs. The lobby elevator needs a keycard. There are cameras in every corner. And I like that there's always someone there, behind the lens, watching over me.

Though not that many people come and go on my floor. The office building itself is a busy place, but my employer's floor isusually pretty empty. I only see about five coworkers at a time, along with my pretentious boss, who always walks like she has bunions.

We're only mandated to come into the office twice a month, so I could actually work from home most of the time. Icouldhide away in my apartment until I become pale enough to qualify as a vampire. But I feel safer here, even if travelling between Lower Manhattan and Upper Manhattan, where I live, causes my adrenaline to spike.

A massive yawn makes my eyes water and my arms shake as I pull up an invoice on my computer screen. I need to double check some numbers I entered yesterday before sending everything to my boss, Stacy. I'm an assistant bookkeeper, so I mostly just check figures, process invoices, and do reports. Exciting stuff. But as I try to reconcile the quarterly food costs for Romano's Restaurant—their produce invoices never seem to match their delivery receipts, which is a headache every month—my brain decides it's a good time to go rogue, turning down one of its many winding paths. My brain connects 'work from yesterday' to 'yesterday morning' to 'yesterday morning when that bald man was watching me.'

Next, as if I've lost all control of my body, I start trembling and my blood pressure jumps and it feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest. That's how this usually goes: winding thoughts, panic, flashbacks. Followed by a tsunami of other emotions.

I need to disrupt the cycle. Sometimes math helps, so I grab a pen and notepad to do some old-school calculations. It's funny because I absolutely hated math in high school. I was always thegeeky theater kid. Now, numbers are my salvation from all the mental noise.

Okay. Three hundred and sixty five plus…

That bald guy from yesterday. Moving with purpose.

Sixty five. Sixty five plus fourteen. That's, um…

His eyes were dark. Soulless.

Watching me.

Seventy-nine. Three hundred seventy-nine is the total.

The Director used to watch me like that.

The Director wanted to possess me. To make me his play thing while he…

Three hundred and sixty five plus fourteen is three hundred seventy-nine.

I write the number on a yellow sticky note. Then I write it again and circle it. Then I subtract two hundred and eighteen. The total is now 161.

One director.

Six days he decided to…

One man watching me yesterday.

I set my pen down and pinch my lips, as if that will stop me from crying. It's been a while, thankfully, since I've felt triggered like this, but my mind is seizing the opportunity to do these stupid mental gymnastics. Whatever it takes to bring the memories back, because brains are masochistic.

I'm hidden away from the world in my little white cubicle, so I give myself permission to fall apart. Stacy, my boss, has her office door closed. Besides her, there are two other coworkers here today: Josh and Maria. Josh has his headphones on and Maria is talking on the phone. They're both distracted and won't hear my whimpers and hiccups.

During moments like these, a rift breaks the world apart, and my old self is stuck on the other side. She wasn't perfect by any means, but she was beautifully innocent. Untouched by the world's darkness. I miss her.

When I'm done expelling the anguish and the bits of fear stuck in my body, I wipe my cheeks and glance up at the security camera near the east wall. The blinking red light next to the lens is like a guardian angel, the only time I don't mind being watched or noticed.

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