Scarred

Scarred By J.M. Snyder The radio’s low and the place is mostly cleared out, this time of the evening, when we hear the roar of regulators down the street. Delia looks at me, eyes wide with fright, and the knife she’s using to chop the vegetables clatters to the wooden table. “Dae—” “It’s okay.” I’m the big brother; that’s what I’m supposed to say, though she doesn’t believe me. I busy myself with the bills and try to ignore the choppy thunder of motorbikes outside. Maybe if I pretend I don’t hear them, they’ll disappear into the night. They’re just looking for fun, that’s all, and there’s none to be had here. Only someone forgot to tell them that because the next thing I know, the bikes cycle down outside and harsh laughter punctuates the still night. Then the bell above the door tinkles out in the main room, heavy boots echo off our worn floor, someone whistles and someone else laughs and then Maeve scurries into the back of the diner to tell us, “They’re here.” Regulators. I remember a time when they didn’t exist in my world, where a man trying to make an honest living could manage to get by without having to answer to such lawlessness. My da used to tell me stories before the terror attacks, stories I’ve told my sister Delia on the nights when she cries herself to sleep. It wasn’t always like this and maybe that’s all the hope we need to go on, to know that there was something more, there can be something more, if we can just get through this present strife to find it. We can get by, I tell her, when I hold her close in the darkness. We will. But I can see she doesn’t buy that—it’s in the way her hands tremble as she scoops the minced vegetables up from the cutting board to dump them in the soup that boils beside her on the stove. From out in the dining room, a ragged voice calls for service, and I see the way she clenches the knife in one fist, toying with the idea of hiding it on her somewhere for protection. I hate this fear in her. “Don’t.” I place a hand over the knife. She looks up at me, her lower lip stuck out in a slight pout, and I shake my head for emphasis. “It’ll just get them mad, Delia. You know that.” “They’ll touch me,” she whispers. “They’ll want—” “I won’t let them,” I promise. She stares at me a moment longer and then nods. She knows I’ll not have that in here. I’ve stood up for her before, I have the scars to prove it—emotional scars that cut deeper than the scratches from McBane’s belt that cross my lower back, scars that ache worse than the bones he crushed in my wrist that never quite healed. When another of the men calls out for service, I nod at Delia and whisper, “Go on. The sooner they’re fed, the sooner they’ll leave.” Maeve twists her hands in her skirts and watches Delia push through the service door that leads behind the counter. “I’ll mind the soup,” she calls out, ever eager to please. She’s only fifteen, Delia’s charge, picked up from an alley not far from here one day some years back, and the child didn’t want to speak or eat or even live until Delia convinced her otherwise. Another war orphan, like the rest of us. I try to tell her my da’s stories, too, to keep that world alive, but it’s nothing she remembers and she thinks they’re just fairy tales, she’s said as much, make-believe things I come up with to get us through the day. She doesn’t remember a mother or father or a time before all this. Delia doesn’t, either—she’s four years older than Maeve and all she knows of our da is what I can tell her, which isn’t much anymore. But she wants to believe things haven’t always been like this: ragtag rogues running the streets, shells falling in the night, the world crumbling around us like so much brick and mortar. I want her to believe there can be so much more than this. Otherwise, what’s the use in going on? “You want I should go out there?” Maeve asks, breaking into my thoughts. I sit at my desk by the walk-in refrigerator, not far from where she stands stirring the soup, and I can hear every word that’s said out in the main room—the catcalls when Delia steps out from around the counter, the raucous laughter, the snickers and jokes. Five different voices, maybe six—regulators don’t travel in larger packs. One leader, usually the roughest of the bunch, mean enough to scare a handful of others into following him. They tear through the city on their motorbikes like postmodern desperados, nothing more than street gangs, that’s all they are. There’s so many, too, I can’t keep track of them, they ride in here like glory and shake us up a bit until they lose interest and we just have to hope we can hold together that long. McBane’s group is the worst of the bunch, but I don’t hear his voice out there in the main room. Thank God for that. He’d have called me out there to him by now. “Dae,” Maeve starts. “Shh.” I want to hear what’s said. The regulators quiet down. Delia must have approached the tables, and then I hear her low voice telling them the daily specials, probably passing out menus and trying to avoid their hands. Maeve bites her lip, stirs the soup, and asks again, “Should I go, too?” Out in the main room, Delia’s voice rises in anger amid wicked laughter. “Stay here,” I tell the younger girl as I stand. The chair scrapes out behind me and she jumps back, startled. “It’s okay.” I don’t quite believe that myself. Pushing through the swinging door, I repeat, “You stay here.” There are seven regulators altogether, a sordid and mean-spirited group, taking up two of the largest tables along the windows by the exit. Beyond the glass I see their bikes lined up single file, gleaming in the floodlights that illuminate the small stretch of concrete I like to call a parking lot. We’ll not have another customer tonight with those hogs out there. Anyone passing will just keep on going by. Already the couple we had sipping coffee at the bar stands by the register, anxious to pay their bill and leave. An older woman and her husband—neither of them look at the regulators. I watch the men from the corner of my eye as I ring up the coffee. They don’t wear McBane’s signature bandannas and I’ve never seen them around here before, but that doesn’t mean anything. A rival gang, then, or someone new looking to score this turf. That means fights in the street, a new reign of terror until McBane backs down or manages to run these punks out. I’m not looking forward to this already. One regulator stretches along his side of the booth, across from two of his men, and I assume he’s their leader. He’s a young kid, no more than a boy, really—Delia’s age, if that. But there’s a hard look about him, his eyes are like flint in his stony face, and a smattering of healed scratches crisscross his nose like freckles. His hair is buzzed down to just a hint of darkness that clings to his scalp, and as he drinks the water Delia’s set before him, I notice his knuckles, battered and scraped. He glances at me with mercurial eyes that look almost silver from here. I look away before he wants to start something. Just go, I pray. When I dare to glance back at him, he’s still watching me, and he’s got that look on his face that I recognize all too well. I see it every time McBane rides up in here looking to score. It’s a hunger, a lust that has nothing to do with Delia and everything to do with me. Dread curls in the pit of my stomach and I tell myself I’m going to ignore it, pretend I don’t notice the weight of his gaze on me as I wipe down the counter. I keep an eye on Delia; she’s handling herself very well, asking each man for his order and not rising to any of their barbed comments or implied threats. When one of the bastards flips through the menu and asks where she’s listed on the thing, I twist the towel in my hand to curb the anger that eats at me inside. She catches my eye and I can see how frightened she is. We’re all terrified here; the sooner these regulators leave, the better. It’s okay, I want to tell her, even though it’s not. Instead, I just nod her way and that’s enough to make her turn back to the customers—at least she knows I’m here. The next table’s worse, the one with the guy I’m assuming runs this show. He doesn’t say anything to her—I don’t expect him to, he’s the type to corner me if I let him, she’s safe as far as he’s concerned—but the men he’s with, they scare me. The one on the end’s as big as a bear, burly and gruff, lank hair hiding his eyes and a foul mouth beneath an ill-kempt beard. “Hey doll,” he bellows as Delia comes up to him. I swear the windows shake when he speaks. Before she can answer, he has a hand on her waist and he’s pulling her into his lap, a flurry of flailing arms and kicking legs. “Let me go!” she cries, dropping her order pad to the floor. The more she struggles, the more the regulators laugh, they think this is funny, even the one by himself, he’s got a smile on his face and he’s watching me again, waiting to see what I’m going to do. I’m wondering the same thing. “Dae—” I come around the counter, wiping my hands on my apron. Unarmed, of course—this is my place, I don’t carry weapons. I’m not one of them. I’m not much to look at, I’ve got muscles but they’re from lifting stock and I wouldn’t know how to throw a punch if my life depended on it, but it’s not me at stake here, it’s her, and I promised I’d not let them touch her. I swore I’d watch out for her, it was the last thing I told my da, I’d be the big brother and keep her safe. That’s the only thing steadying my voice when I approach the table . “Let her go.” Silence. It’s shock value I’m riding on here, and the few moments it takes for the lug to notice me is enough for her to wriggle free from his grip. Straightening her skirts, she cowers behind me, her hands on my back. And then he realizes he’s got to do something to save face here, I should know better than to start something in front of the whole gang. He hauls himself up from the booth, a head taller than me and three times as wide, his eyes gleaming with a mean spark I don’t like at all, his hands fisting at his sides. Hands like that crushed my wrist, the first time I stood up for her. I’ve been torn open by men like him, left bleeding and broken, I have the scars to prove it. Behind me Delia gasps, pulls me a step back. “Dae,” she whispers. “Oh God, Dae—” I don’t know if it’s courage or stupidity that makes me look up at him and say, “I’ll not have that in here. If you’re wanting to touch her again, you can just leave now.” He laughs. I expected him to; that’s how it normally starts. He looks around at his friends, they’re all laughing now. Looks like I’ll give them a spot of fun tonight after all. He raises his voice until it booms through the room even though I’m standing right in front of him. “Can you believe this?” he asks, motioning at me, and that makes the others laugh again. Delia’s nails bite into my back. This is ridiculous; this man is easily twice my size. If he’s of a mind, there’s nothing I can do to stop him and he knows it. “I’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth.” He gives me with a bawdy wink, “And your girl’s just the thing to hit the spot. Whaddya say, sugar—” When he lunges around me, I move away, keeping Delia out of his reach. She bumps into one of the bar stools, then scurries around the counter, pressing against the wall, ready to run if I tell her to. As the regulator closes the distance between us, I caution, “You’d do well to sit down.” The threat sounds hollow to my own ears, and it just makes him grin. But at least my voice doesn’t quiver when I say, “Sir, I’ll not have trouble here.” Sir is too kind a word for a man like him. He smirks at me; that sir bit gets them every time. “Sir,” he echoes, adding a lisp to goad me. I cringe when he pats my cheek. I hate him for doing this to me, to us. I hate them all. Leaning close, he lowers his voice until it’s just a raspy whisper and tells me, “Don’t worry, kid. I don’t go for the boys.” Thank God. I’ve had men like him, men who barreled into me because they just wanted release and they didn’t care if it was me or Delia, and I do it protect her from them. McBane’s the one who’s scarred my back, he likes the sight of my blood when he comes, he’s sick like that. I just close my eyes and disappear when it happens, I’m not alive at that moment, I don’t exist. I learned long ago how to cancel myself out of this world, with its hate and bigotry and hurt, and if it keeps men like this away from Delia, then it’s worth it to me. But he’s not interested in just another f**k, he wants her, I can see it in his eyes, the way he studies me for a moment, my face, my lips, then glances over at her and his grin widens. He wants her. When he starts around the counter, I tell him, “I’ll have to ask you to leave, sir.” The words don’t faze him. “Delia—” That’s as far as I get before she pushes through the door to the back and runs, I can hear her bare feet on the stairs, she’s probably grabbed Maeve’s hand and is dragging her along. At the top of the stairs, she’ll bolt the door to the attic we share and she’ll be safe, he can’t break through that. Then he’ll come back after me. Only he doesn’t get that far. He doesn’t even make it through the door, still swinging from Delia’s hasty retreat, when a soft, deadly voice says, “Sit your ass down, Tarn. You heard the man.” It’s their leader who spoke, the one with the scars across his nose and the eyes like quicksilver; he’s glaring at his friend as if he can drop him with that look alone. Tarn scowls at me like this is my fault, and the others have stopped laughing. This isn’t funny anymore. “Coby,” Tarn growls. “You said—” “I said sit your ass down.” Coby speaks slowly as he fixes Tarn with that stare. Knocking me aside, Tarn crosses the room in two steps to tower over Coby where he sits, but Coby doesn’t flinch. The third regulator at the table frowns into a glass of water and doesn’t look up. I expect something dramatic now, something loud and destructive that will tear through my small diner with the force of a whirlwind and leave us to pick up the pieces when echoes from the last of the motorbikes have faded into the distance. I’ve seen that all too often before—after a while, the paint doesn’t cover as much as it should. But something passes between these men, something I don’t quite catch, even though I’m watching Coby openly. I’m fascinated by his hard eyes and can’t look away. Part of me doesn’t want to, and I know that’s horrible, he’s nothing but trash like the others, another McBane in the making and they’re just trouble, the whole lot of them. For a heart-stopping moment, nothing happens, nothing at all. Then Tarn sinks back into his seat, grumbling under his breath words I can’t quite catch, and Coby glances at me. My knees go weak and I want to sink into the floor, just let him have whatever it is he wants and go, please just go. “If she’ll come back out,” he says in that same soft voice, seductive and dangerous, “he’ll apologize.” Tarn glowers across from him like that’s the last thing he’s about to do, but I know Delia, she’ll not be down until these men are gone. “That’s all right.” Now my voice cracks, and someone sniggers. It’s enough to pink my cheeks and I duck down to pick up Delia’s order pad to hide the blush that colors my face. I have to clear my throat twice before I manage to ask, “She took your orders?” Coby nods at the other man at his table, prompting him to mumble, “A burger all the way. Make it two.” Tarn mutters, “Same.” I scribble as fast as I can, I want to get out of here, away from these men and the tension suspended over them like fire ready to fall. When I turn to Coby, he’s watching me again. I hate the way his eyes make my fingers tremble. “What about you? What can I get for you, sir?” It’s that sir again, I know I shouldn’t humor them but my da taught me better than that. Sir the devil, son, he used to say. If he tips his hat, you say how do, you were raised with manners and just ‘cause no one else has ‘em don’t mean you have to forget yours. I feel the familiar lump rise in the back of my throat, the hitch that always comes up when I think of my da and the way things were before the attacks, before the city fell to ruins and people went bad. I’m about to ask for the order again when Coby smiles—a real smile, something I haven’t seen on a man like him in a long time—and he asks, “What do you got here that’s good?” Tarn smirks like he knows what the kid’s asking, but I’m ignoring that, remember? So I rattle off the menu from memory, burgers and hoagies and dives, the soup of the day that’s still cooking in the back, the meats we have in the fridge. I stare at a spot on the wall as I talk, above the window so I can pretend I don’t see the way this Coby’s gaze trails down my body, as blatant as Tarn’s advances on Delia. When he doesn’t choose something I start to flounder, repeat the more popular menu items, and he interrupts me. “What do you suggest?” I look into those eyes and my mind goes blank. I know what he wants, it’s written plainly across his face, I’ve seen that look a hundred times from regulators passing through here, wild men just like him. I’m surprised he hasn’t made an offer yet, or grabbed my ass, or hell, just thrown me on the table, have his men hold me down while he shoves into me like others have done before. But he hasn’t said anything yet, maybe I’m reading him wrong. I suggest you leave, I want to say. Just take your gang of hooligans and hit the road, find some other Ma and Pa place to rattle tonight. I’m not that bold—whatever courage I had earlier is gone now, fled upstairs with Delia. Without her I lose my strength, and in a low voice I mutter, “The burgers are good. Everyone else is getting them.” “I’m not everyone else.” Oh f**k. The last thing I need is to piss him off after he’s reined in his men. “The soup, then, though it’s not quite done—” He waves dismissively. “A burger’s fine.” Across from him, Tarn laughs, releasing some of the tension that’s built between the two men. Don’t ask me about soft buns, I pray, scribbling down another burger on the order pad. Don’t say anything else, please. Someone must be listening to me tonight, because one of the regulators at the other table calls out to Coby and suddenly I’m not there anymore, I don’t exist for them. Without another word, I hurry around the counter to the back. I push through the door, let it swing shut behind me, and refuse to glance over my shoulder when I swear I can feel him watching me again.