We
had to make revisions to our stories for my English class. My five 100 word
short stories were originally a part of a collage of stories that we put
together for an essay in the class. However, I decided to put them on my recently
created blog. My teacher really liked Pizza & Scars the best out of my five 100 word short stories. Originally
they were separate stories, but I decided to bridge them together and have the
same two protagonists featured in both of them, Dallas & the unnamed
narrator. I got rid of the 100 word format of them (although you can still read
the originals on my blog). I then retitled the story Dallas. I really enjoyed writing this and I hope you enjoy reading
it.
Dallas
I sit in my chair rubbing my pointer
finger against my black jeans. It’s a nervous habit. This is Dallas’s first
time eating dinner with me at my house. He’s been over plenty times, but
well…we’ve only usually had time for snacks. Dallas folds a big slice of pizza,
and bites down on it. The sauce spreads around his mouth and a tiny droplet
hits the table. He lets out a nearly inaudible chuckle. Dallas takes a napkin, and tries wiping it all
off. He nearly gets it all, but a morsel of red tomato sauce still stains his
face. I pull a napkin out of the holder on the table and tell him to lean over.
I wipe the remaining sauce off of Dallas’ mouth. He smirks. My eyes wander from
his mouth to his eyes. They’re a dark brown color. But, they’re not like mine.
They’re lighter. They’re like a sea of milk chocolate conveying his sweetness.
He’s perfect. It’s as if he sipped ambrosia and had become one of the gods. I
don’t know why he’d choose me of all people to have these liaisons with. Maybe he
sees something in me that I don’t. Maybe he sees beyond the gap in my teeth; my
tight, kinky hair; my big nose. His smirk turns into a grin. He pulls me out of
my self-loathing and I can’t help but to grin back. I feel lucky to have Dallas
in my life. I don’t know what to quite call him. We’re not dating, but we’re
more than just friends with benefits. My friends tell me that he’s probably
nervous to tell me how he really feels. But, I’ve never really seen Dallas
nervous before. I wish he’d just say something if he liked me the way I liked
him. In about 20 minutes we finish my homemade pizza dinner. Then, we wash and
dry the dishes. It feels nice having someone here to help me. While we’re
scrubbing the dishes with the brush, drying them, and putting them in the
cabinet my apartment feels more like a home. That sounds nice. A home with
Dallas and I, and maybe a bunch of pups running around. I could see myself
possibly having a future with him. I’m crouching down placing a pan in the
warming drawer, or as I like to call it the oven drawer. Dallas is standing on
a stool putting a ceramic plate on the shelf. I hear a gasp, a thud, and the
beginning of ‘wa-.” I look up, but before my face fully faces upwards something
hard and sharp slams against my forehead. I yell out in pain as it hits the
ground and breaks into more pieces. I
feel a warm gooey substance start to flow down my face. Some of it gets caught
in my brow, but I close my left eye before the rest gets in it. Some of the
blood flows down the side of my face dripping onto my shirt making it gold,
white, and now crimson. Dallas gets off
of the stool and crouches down beside me. He says, “Oh fuck! I’m so fucking
sorry Are you okay?”
I say, “Yeah.” I get up, and so does
Dallas. I speed walk over to the bathroom. He follows closely behind. I look
under the sink for my first aid kit. I pull it out. Dallas tells me to let him
help. I nod in approval. Dallas first pulls out a sterile wipe to wipe the
excess blood. He then pulls out some sort of wet wipe to wipe the rest of the
blood away and to sterilize the wound. He wipes the coagulated blood from
around my eye and off of my eyebrow. He presses a gauze on to my forehead. He
takes it off a short while later and puts one of the large band aids on it. I
feel kind of childish with it on my forehead, He says, “It doesn’t really look
that bad…just a lot of blood. I’m sorry…”
I smile. Then, I tell him, “It doesn’t
really hurt much.” Dallas smiles back. He looks at the blood on my shirt.
He says, “Do you want me to wash it for
you?”
I
tell him, “It’s okay.”
He says, “Why don’t you take it off
anyway?”
I come closer to him. He puts his arms
around my waist and brings me in closer. He grips my shirt from the sides and
attempts to pull it up. I quickly push them away. He says to me, “You never
take your shirt off even in bed. How come?”
I
respond, “I’m kind of self-conscious about my chest.”
He says, “You don’t have to be,” Dallas
pauses and smirks. “You have a nice chest in your shirt at least. I like it.”
“It’s not that,” I respond.
“What is it?” Dallas asks.
“Nothing,” I respond.
“Do you have a second face growing out of
your chest? Are you secretly a woman?” Dallas asks cheekily.
“No. And as you already know definitely
not,” I retort saucily.
I think back to earlier about Dallas
making this apartment feel like home. Maybe I should tell him. If Dallas and I
do become anything more he’ll find out eventually. It may not be something you
tell your friend with benefits, but it is something you would tell a boyfriend,
close friend, or husband. Dallas says, “You don’t have to tell me if you -.”
I cut him off, “My scars.” I pause. I
lift up my shirt. I show him the scarred laceration that ran diagonally across
my chest. I showed him the burn scar over my left rib cage. “My brother was
drunk-driving when I was younger. He stole the Volvo. We were escaping our
step-father. Once he came into our lives my brother’s drinking habit became
amplified. I don’t blame him though. Our stepfather was a very evil man. And,
my brother wanted to protect me from that evil. I naively believed that while
being around my brother nothing could hurt me. He always protected me whether
from my stepfather, the bullies, or even from the self-destructive thoughts
that filled my head at that age. As a kid I never realized how reckless my
brother became after he began to drink. As a kid I never realized how much my
brother went through. I should have noticed his scars both the visible and the
invisible. I wish I had of heard his cry for help in the form of a bottle. If
only I was stronger he wouldn’t have had to always worry about me. And, now
he’s dead. He crashed into a truck. I got these scars from the accident. I
deserved it. I was weak. I was weak…” I try to hold back the tears. I can feel
them start to well up. I try holding them back. But, I can’t. They start to
flow. Dallas hugs me. I press my face against his chest. The harder I sob the
closer Dallas pulls me.
He whispers, “It’s not your fault. It’s
not your fault. It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m here. I’m here for you.” His voice
crescendos. “Your brother was strong for you because he wanted to protect you.
He didn’t want you to go through the same pain he did. He wouldn’t want you to
be crying like this right now. Your scars are proof that you survived. You’re
in great university now. You’re doing good for yourself. He would be very
proud!” I pull out of my sobbing daze. I use my finger to wipe the tears from
my eyes. That’s what I tell myself, but I still feel guilty. I feel as though
it was my fault. But, coming from him for some reason I feel myself believe it
just a little more. Dallas continues, “Our scars both visible and invisible are
proof that we have lived.” He unbuttons his pants.
I tell him, “No, no…not right now.”
He responds, “That’s not what I’m doing.”
He pulls them down. He’s standing in the middle of the bathroom in his
underwear with his button down Polo on. He rolls up his underwear slightly. He
turns to the side. He points to horizontal scars running from his hip to his
mid-thigh. They are something I’ve never really noticed before. I’ve only seen
him undressed in dim lighting. Under the dimmed lighting of my room, and even
in the lighting of the kitchen I saw Dallas as perfect. But, now under the
harsh lighting of the bathroom I notice his blemishes and physical
imperfections. His skin isn’t perfectly even toned. He has acne under his chin.
The bridge of his nose is slightly crooked. He has a slight hunch, But, even as
I notice this I seem to fall for him a little more. He’s not perfect. He’s
human. He has his flaws. But, those flaws encompass who he is. They are what
make him human. He says, “When I was in high school I was severely depressed.
Things were shit at home, at school, everywhere. I used to self-harm. The scars
are permanent reminders. That was the toughest part of my life. My scars remind
me of the strength I gathered during that time, and that I should continue to
persevere no matter what happens. It won’t get better if you don’t believe it
can. You need to trust yourself, love yourself…forgive yourself. I won’t judge
you because of your scars, and anyone who truly matters…who truly cares about
you won’t judge them. It wasn’t your fault what happened to your brother. You
can’t change the past. You need to persevere and live…if not for your sake,
then for your brother’s sake. Do not dishonor his memory. Stay strong.”
I look at him in his eyes…his sweet milk
chocolate eyes. I see something else I didn’t notice before. There’s a fire in
his eyes. There’s a passion. It burns away the pain. I swallow the spit that’s
been building up in my throat. I hug him and close my eyes and let myself fade
into him. I let myself fade into his warm embrace. I can feel his fire. This is
not a man I could possibly see myself with in the future. This is a man I can
definitely see myself with in the future.
----
Chance Preshia
