Page 71 of Where Your Scars Meet Mine
Of course, that relief won’t last. It never does here. Sooner or later another girl will roll her suitcase through that door, another kid with a file, a sad story and a face prospective parents will probably notice long before they ever really look at mine.
Fine by me.
Anything is better than where I came from.
Anything is better than ever seeing my mother’s eyes again.
I still dream about the motel room sometimes. The peeling wallpaper. The smell of old smoke and mildew. The way the paramedics wheeled her out while I stood there frozen, too tired and too relieved to cry the way everyone probably thought I should. I remember watching her eyes close and feeling something ugly and enormous move through me.
Relief.
The kind that made me feel monstrous.
At least now the only place she can haunt me is in nightmares.
“You need a name,” I whisper, looking back at the moth. “Marlo?”
The name belonged to one of my old bunkmates, a girl with a sweet smile and a habit of humming to herself before bed. The moth just keeps wandering around the inside of the jar like it doesn’t care what I call it.
“Goldie?” I try with a quiet laugh, tapping the glass softly.
The halls beyond my room are already stirring. I can hear the noise picking up, voices overlapping, shoes scuffing against tile. Most of the kids from Brightside have been dragged out to socialize with the kids visiting from the other home. It’s one of those forced events the adults insist are “good for us,” as if putting damaged children in a room together and calling it community changes what any of us carry.
It’s only a matter of time before someone comes looking for me too.
Until then, I want these few quiet minutes with my little creature.
Tapping the lid, the moth’s tiny legs reach upward like it’s begging for a way out.
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Make me regret this.”
Slowly, I unscrew the lid, resting one finger on the rim, already trying to work out how I’ll catch it if it bolts the second I give it air.
It doesn’t.
Instead, those tiny feet graze my fingertip first, so light I almost miss it. Then it crawls onto my finger all on its own, settling there as if it trusts me. I hold perfectly still, breath trapped in my chest, while its wings lift and settle, lift and settle, showing off all that impossible color.
I carry it to the edge of my bed like I’m transporting something sacred. Once I sit, it wanders slowly over my knuckle and down toward my wrist as I let one finger brush the edge of its wing with all the caution in the world.
“Rose?” I murmur.
The moth flutters once.
That feels enough like an answer to make me smile.
“Rose it is-”
The room shakes with the force of my door slamming open.
I flinch so hard I nearly drop her.
My hand jerks downward toward the bed as Rose crawls off onto the blanket just as a body barrels into the room. The door slams shut behind him hard enough to rattle the frame. He stands there gripping the handle with a white-knuckled hand, chest heaving, like he outran something with teeth.
“Fucking idiots,” he gasps, voice rough and angry. “Parading us around like dogs.”
The second I clear my throat, his entire body goes taut.
I stare at him.
