30 January 2013
When I woke up it took me a good thirty seconds to realise where I was. I was alone in the bed, but I could hear the shower running in the en-suite bathroom. The clock on Marshall's desk glowed 11:30am brightly, but I was still exhausted - yesterday had been one hell of a day. Marshall reappeared, already dressed, his face bruised and swollen still from the previous night. He looked at me sheepishly, still curled up in his bed, reticent to leave its warmth.
"Hi," I beamed, and Marshall smiled back, wincing a little at his painful face. "How are you this morning?"
"Sore," he replied, perching awkwardly on the edge of the bed. I sat up and gently hugged him and he wrapped his arms around me in return. "Thank you for everything," he whispered, burying his face in my hair, "I'm not quite sure why you are still here, after everything I've put you through."
"Oh it takes more than that to get rid of me," I said, turning to kiss him softly. "Maybe today we can get to know each other properly, without any crazy interruptions?"
"Sounds great," he laughed, "let me take you to lunch, as a sorry and a thank you."
"Perfect," I replied.
~
After rushing home to shower and change, Marshall took me to a small, cozy Mexican restaurant on the outskirts of the city. Everywhere we went, people stared at Marshall's face - he looked terrible, with the night's injuries adding to his already scarred complexion. Even the waitress looked a little shocked when she came to take our order.
"It's alright," Marshall said, as I quietly seethed at the waitress, "I'm used to it."
"That doesn't make it right," I shook my head, "you shouldn't have to get used to it. It's not fair."
"There's been a lot of stuff in my life that's been unfair," he sighed, "I've learned that life can deal out some serious shit - you can either get used to it or give up. And I'm still here so..." he shrugged, trailing off as the waitress returned with our drinks. "I guess I should tell you how I ended up looking like this," he brushed back his hair, revealing the full extent of his scarred face.
"You really don't have to," I said, "it doesn't matter to me anyway."
"I know," he smiled softly, "but I think you deserve that much, after everything. It happened when I was thirteen - my parents were driving back from a Wedding in Cornwall and...well I don't know exactly what happened. I was asleep when they crashed and I didn't wake up until I was already in the hospital." Marshall fiddled with his drink, wiping the condensation off the glass with his thumb. "The police told me what they thought had happened; either my dad had drunk too much at the wedding reception or he fell asleep behind the wheel, no one can really be sure as most of evidence was burned. Whatever happened, he went off the road and flipped the car, before ploughing into a tree. The car was already ablaze by the time someone found us - the smoke is what attracted their attention to our car. I was pulled out, burned and barely alive, but it was too late for my parents. They reckon that my mum died on impact and that my dad was unconscious before he started burning, but I think they were just saying that to make me feel better."
"Marshall..." I started, but I couldn't find any words that didn't sound ridiculous. I settled for holding his hand across the table. He smiled at the gesture, squeezing my hand.
"So I was thirteen and suddenly orphaned. I was in hospital for weeks as they tried to rebuild my face and neck; I've had more work than Michael Jackson," he grinned, "but even with all the skin grafts, this was the best they could do. It's actually better than it was - being so young my body kinda repaired itself a little."
"What happened? I mean, where did you live?" I asked.
"We didn't really have any close family, no one who would take in a thirteen year old monster anyway," he replied, "and no one would adopt me. People want to adopt cute babies and sweet, underprivileged children, not teenagers. Especially not ones who look like they've been through a meat grinder. So I ended up in an orphanage for three years, which were the worst three years of my life. My parents left me a decent amount of money, but I couldn't touch it until I was sixteen. Then the state declared me independent and I've pretty much been living off the money from the will since then. I get extra support to help me through Uni, but I'll be so glad when I can get a job and finally have some sort of normal life. Although it'll never be 'normal' will it?"
"Why not?" I said, a lone tear betraying my inner sadness. "Why shouldn't you have whatever kind of life you want?"
"Because the world is not kind enough to ever allow someone like me to be happy," Marshall's grey eyes looked tired beyond his eighteen years. "What chance do I have of a good job, a home, a family of my own? Who would want to be stuck in a relationship with me? Even the kindest heart would get tired of being part of such a spectacle after a while. And I would not wish it on anyone."
"But..." I started, shocked that Marshall could still think me to be so shallow and shortsighted, "...What about me?"
"Rosie," he started, pressing my hand between his, "we barely know each other."
"Then let me get to know you better," I exclaimed, "and give me a little more credit. I approached you, you do remember that don't you?" I touched his scarred and beaten face. "Your appearance did not put me off then, and after everything that has happened, it still does not put me off now."
"You really mean it, don't you?" Marshall smiled with such ernest I felt my stomach explode into a swarm of butterflies.
"I really do," I smiled in return.
Scars - Part 8 • Opuss № I