DISCLAIMER: Twilight and its inclusive material is copyright to Stephenie Meyer. Original creation, including but not limited to plot and characters, is copyright to the respective authors of each story. No copyright infringement is intended.

Box of Scars

I closed the door to my bedroom softly, knowing there would be hell to pay if I slammed it like I wanted to. Pushing the hamper away from the closet door, I pulled down my special box and sat down on the floor inside. This was my refuge, and I didn't need a light to see where I would cut myself.

From the outside, we were picture perfect. Dad made a very comfortable living and Mom stayed at home. We weren't rich, but we certainly had everything we needed, and then some.

Everything, that is, except love.

I don't think my mother ever forgave herself for the stillborn birth of my little brother. Why'd they tell them it would have been a boy? Mom was devastated and Dad… Well, Dad was pissed. He blamed Mom for "losing his legacy" and accused her of being a bad mother. When she got home, it was like Mom set out to prove him right.

There wasn't a day that went by without major drama over something I did or didn't do. Up until then, my report cards had been pretty good – I was a solid B+ student – but that all changed this year. I was just so tired of them yelling at me and picking. They didn't really hit me with their hands; they just hit me with words and pulled whatever love they possessed back into themselves. No longer were B pluses good or good enough; now, it was why didn't I try harder and was I stupid or what. My mom actually said I'd never get a job at the rate I was going and why didn't I just go out on the street and "sell it."

Now, alone in my closet, I could conquer the pain I felt inside by pushing it into my skin. I made sure the cuts wouldn't show tomorrow when I had to face them again. No one at school ever noticed, not my scars and lately, not me either.

~X~

I usually went to the coffee shop after school instead of going home. Here, I could get some homework done without getting yelled at or looking like a weirdo hanging out in the library. Counselors watched for that kind of thing: kids, hanging out by themselves in the library. The last thing I needed was someone to tell my parents I wasn't acting right – I'd never hear the end of it.

I tried to sit over near the corner so no one would pay any attention to me or wonder how long I was going to sit there before I left. I kind of started thinking of it as my table, which was a mistake. Someone was sitting there today.

I got my drink and pulled out a stool at the counter across from my table. A girl with short hair had her back to me. She was leaning forward talking to a guy who looked like he was in pain or something. He was really cute, even though he wasn't happy. Maybe his mom yelled at him, too.

I scratched at my cuts absently and immediately regretted it. I could feel the wet spreading already and knew I had to get to the restroom or it would stain my clothes. I jumped off the stool leaving my backpack on the counter and grabbed the key from the cashier. When I went past my table, I saw the guy go all rigid, but I didn't have time to think about it. I pushed the door closed and unzipped my pants just in time.

It took like five minutes to get it to stop bleeding. I really didn't think I'd cut myself that deep, but I was pretty upset so anything's possible. I made a Band-Aid out of toilet paper and raised my panties over it so it was snug against my body just in case it started to bleed again. It would scar over, too, just like the others had, but for now, I was safe.

I'd broken my own cardinal rule: People were waiting in line for the bathroom now, every one of them looking at me. A little gasp escaped me. I put my head down, gave the key to the next girl and pushed past those waiting people, mumbling apologies as I went. I didn't look up again until I was on my stool sipping my Frappuccino.

The guy at my table was staring right at me, like I'd set him on fire or something. I flinched and let my head sink into my shoulders and chest. I was scared. Not only had he seen me, he was now looking at me. This was bad.

I don't know why, but I just had this feeling that something really bad was going to happen. Why was he looking at me? Was he a peer counselor from school who would tell my mom and dad I was here? I set my drink down slowly and glanced over to my table to see if he was still looking at me or what. He was, and, oh my God, now the girl turned around in her seat looking at me, too.

I had to get out of here.

I shoved everything into my backpack and nearly ran to the door. I threw my drink away and glanced over my shoulder. The guy was trying to stand up, still staring at me. The girl had a death grip on his arm and was really talking to him, like trying to get him not to go.

It didn't matter. I had to get out of there.

~X~

It was another bad night.

Mom didn't know why I was home so early and asked me if I ditched. Right. Me ditching would bring the whole world crashing down on me and I knew it. I told her we had a teacher's conference and they let us go early, hoping that would kind of end it. I said I was going to go study in my room and she started yelling, "Why didn't you go to the library?"

When I said that's where they were having the conference, she just lost it. She threw herself down on the couch, crying and screaming about how I am so rude and don't care about her and she works so hard and I just think I'm entitled to everything. I really didn't know what to do.

"I'm sorry, Mom," I said and started to head to my room.

"Oh no you don't," she said really loud and grabbed my backpack. She pulled on it so hard I fell backward and almost knocked her over. That was when I saw the wine glass in the kitchen and knew she'd been drinking again.

She pulled me up by my sweater and yelled at me for a while. I really don't remember everything she said; it didn't matter anyway. I just kept my head down and looked at my shoes. She finally tired herself out and made me go stand in the corner. I felt kind of stupid, standing there like a little kid, but it was better than having her yell at me. She got her glass and went to the couch.

I tried hard not to sniff or cough or make a noise. It was just better if she forgot I was there, which she did until Dad got home. When he started yelling at her, I knew it was going to be really bad. I tried as hard as I could to be part of the wallpaper.

He was so mean to her. Mom wasn't nice to me, but I didn't think she deserved the mean things he said about her. She didn't yell back, though, she just started crying. And the more he yelled, the louder the crying got. He said he wasted his life on her and she started talking back to him in that crying sing-song talk that he hates. When I heard that big thwhack and the sound of breaking glass, I turned around to see Mom on the floor, holding the side of her face.

"Mom!" I shouted, scared he'd really hurt her.

"And you," he yelled.

He finally saw me.

It just got worse from there.

~X~

When I woke up the next morning, I hurt all over.

I made my way to the bathroom and stared into the purple and blue bruise under my left eye. It wasn't that bad; when I touched it with my finger, the skin turned white then faded back into purple. There were other bruises on my body, but they'd be under my clothes. This one, well, makeup wasn't going to hide this. I'd have to make up some story.

There was a note on the table from my mother that read, "I called school and told them you were sick. Don't wake me."

Great. The whole day was mine, but I had this big fat bruise on my face. I could wear a hoodie and sunglasses and let my hair cover it up; maybe no one would notice. Most people didn't look at me anyway, so I'd probably be okay.

Staying at home really wasn't an option. I had a little cash, but certainly not enough to go to shopping. I could go to the coffee shop as long as no one was there who would stare at me like I was trying to steal their boyfriend or something. I'd go by, and if it wasn't clear, I'd go to the mall for a while and window shop. It was a plan.

~X~

I took my time getting to the shop; why hurry? There were few people on the streets and no one was looking at me or wondering what I was doing, so I felt free for the first time in a long time.

Why had Mom called the school for me? I know she got hit, too, but I didn't expect her to do anything actually nice for me. Maybe she didn't want to have to deal with the school asking questions about me or didn't want gossip coming back around. That would really set Dad off, if he had to defend himself against gossip. Maybe she didn't trust me to make up a story. I didn't know; it really didn't matter.

The day was gray and dark; I huddled deeper into my hoodie. I prayed as I walked along, praying no one would see me, no one would stop me, and that no one added another shard of pain to my world. My mind started to wander to what would happen tonight when I got home and quickly stepped away from that and into the coffee shop that would be today's refuge.

My table was empty. I issued a silent 'thank you' as I slid into the booth side of the table. My backpack took up the other half, ensuring no one would sit next to me. I waited until there was no line, then ordered my vente Frappuccino. This would be my breakfast, my lunch, and my reason to sit at the table. I'd have to make it last.

~X~

I'm not sure how long I sat there before I heard the quiet voice speaking to me. I still had my sunglasses on and my hood pulled over my forehead, but my hand jerked to the bruised side of my face before I could make out the spoken words.

"May I share your table, little lady?"

My eyes flowed up the tall, muscular body to the angelic face – the same face I'd seen here at my table yesterday. I blinked and blinked again with my mouth hanging open. It took about five seconds before my brain kicked into gear and I made some noise indicating it was okay. The beautiful man's face slid into a half smile as he lifted the chair and effortlessly eased himself into the seat. Though he sat bolt upright in the chair, his manner was as easy as his southern drawl and I couldn't take my eyes off him.

"Thank you kindly, ma'am," he said. He set his cold, frothy drink on the table and pointed to mine. "We seem to have similar tastes."

"Uh huh," I said, or something like that. Though I couldn't think straight, I got the feeling he wasn't talking about the drinks.

You know that feeling you get when you're in a room by yourself, but you know someone's watching you, that shivery, tingling fear that runs through you telling you to get out of there? This guy just did that to me. I couldn't decide if I wanted to jump on his lap or pick up my backpack and run out the door. It wasn't anything he did, though his golden eyes followed every tic of my face. And it wasn't anything he said or the way he said it, it was just that all my hair was standing on end. I couldn't take my eyes off him, and not just because he was gorgeous. I was afraid, enthralled, vulnerable, and intrigued.

"I saw you the other day when I was here with my wife," he said casually as my eyes dropped to his hands. There it was, a wedding ring, big as life. "We married young," he continued, ignoring my stare. His easy southern drawl was almost hypnotic. "You were bleeding that day."

"How, how did you —," I began, but his look stopped me dead. I couldn't speak! I forced myself to move, picking up my cold drink and taking a long sip through the straw.

He picked up his drink and held it on the table in front of him with both hands. "I can see I've confused you. Let me tell you, you have nothing to worry about from me today."

His words were strangely soothing. It was as if what he said was perfectly clear, perfectly understandable, and perfectly acceptable. Sitting back in the booth with my drink in hand, I inhaled deeply and let it out with a sigh.

"Tell me what's going on with you. Where'd that bruise come from?" His voice was soothing and rich, again with that thick drawl. And although this was a man I didn't know, had seen only once before, and had feared only moments before, I was utterly calm and relaxed and ready to tell him anything.

"My dad," I said. "He was mad at me because I upset my mom by coming home early."

"From leaving here?"

"Yeah."

He tilted his head with a pained expression. For just a flash, anger and regret hit my chest like a bolt of lightning, then just as quickly, it faded away, leaving me relaxed though somewhat confused.

"Let me tell you a story," he said. "When my wife was a little girl, she lived with her father, her mother, and her sister. She was a bright little girl and did well in school, though her father just couldn't treat her right. He was angry with her mother, thinking that all my wife's gifts were problems inherited from her mother. He couldn't see the beauty of her or appreciate all that she was. It's a shame, too. She loved him very much.

"One day, my wife was afraid her mother was in danger. She told her mother who believed her, but when the father found out, he was so angry that he sent his daughter to a special kind of —," he paused for a moment. "A special kind of school. Soon afterwards, her mother actually died. It wasn't my wife's fault, but it made her father very upset."

I wasn't exactly sure what he was talking about or why he told me this story, but I could relate. Dad was getting angrier with Mom every day, and Mom was drinking and crying more.

"It has to stop somewhere, doesn't it?" I didn't mean to ask him because, of course, it had stopped for his wife, but I couldn't help but wonder how I'd get out of my situation.

He seemed to understand. "It does." He leaned forward and put his icy hand on mine. "Your job is to survive."

"Sometimes, I just wish I didn't feel anything," I said. I was unafraid to tell this man anything, which was so unlike me. Even if he knew my dad, I didn't care. I was sure he wouldn't hurt me.

"Oh darlin'," he said with a wry expression. "You'd still feel — even if you were made of stone."

I began to shiver noticeably. He pulled his hand away slowly, sitting back in his chair with hands once again around his drink. Questions began popping into my head the moment he withdrew: Did he know me? Did he know what was going on at home? Did he know my dad?

I opened my mouth to ask him when the woman with the spiky hair sort of danced up behind him and put her hand on his shoulder. His wife, he'd said.

"This is my wife, Alice," he said, introducing her with a glance over his shoulder.

I wasn't exactly sure why, but suddenly, I thought of my mom. "It's nice to meet you. You kinda remind me of someone."

"Hmm," she said in a lilting voice. "Who could it be I wonder." She leaned over the man's shoulder and kissed him on the cheek. "Are you ready to go, Jasper?"

The man stood, his back rigid. He towered over his wife. "It was a pleasure to meet you…" He hesitated for a moment. "I apologize, but I don't believe I know your name."

I stood up. "Oh, uh, I'm Mary. Mary Alice Lewison."

"What an unusual name," Alice said. "Were you named after someone?"

"Yes, yes I was: My grandma's sister who died when she was little."

Alice and Jasper exchanged a smiling glance then turned back to me.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Mary," Jasper said, bowing the tiniest bit. "Perhaps we'll meet again sometime."

"Nice to meet you, Mary," Alice said, smiling as she turned with Jasper to leave the shop.

"Uh huh," I said to nobody, since they both were gone. I sat down at my table absently, trying to figure out what had really just happened. Jasper had left his drink still full, and though mine was melting, his was still as icy as when they'd made it.

The story replayed in my head. I didn't have the same life or situation, but the story actually made me feel a bit hopeful. Maybe it wouldn't always be like this. Maybe I could have someone love me if I got older. Maybe…

I sat there for hours, running the different scenarios and pieces of the story over in my head. By the time I was ready to go home, the repetition of the story was making my head hurt. I picked up my backpack and put on my headphones, playing loud music to get it to stop.

~X~

When I got home, everything seemed different. My mom was up, the TV was off, and there were no smells of dinner coming from the kitchen. I stood at the door, my mouth hanging open, watching her taking photo albums off the shelf. She turned to place them in a box and saw me.

"Mary," she said, smiling and reaching for me. "I'm so glad you're here. Can you take these boxes," she said as she picked up some flat cardboard from the floor. "And pack up your room? We're leaving."

She turned back to her task and left me standing there. I didn't know how to react. "W-where are we going?"

"Oh honey," she said, reaching for me as she sat on the couch. I let her pull me down to sit next to her.

"I'm so, so sorry," she said with tears in her eyes threatening to brim over. "Your dad and I… Well, we don't see eye to eye anymore. I decided last night that I can't let him hit you or me ever again. I should have come to this decision a lot earlier, and for that, I am so sorry."

"But, how, I mean where are we going to go?"

"For now, we're going to the hotel in town. We'll figure it out as we go, okay? I have some money set aside that your grandmother gave me. We'll be okay." Her eyes searched mine as she spoke. "You deserve so much better than this." She stroked my hair and gently brushed down the bruise. "I won't let anyone destroy your beauty, sweetheart. Not your dad – not even me."

Tears I didn't know I had rolled down my face. "Oh, Momma, I love you." My arms reached out for her and pulled her into a hug.

"I love you, too, sweetheart," she said softly into my hair. "Let's finish as much as we can in the next hour and then go, okay?"

I wiped my eyes and looked into hers. "Okay, Momma."

~X~

As I yanked things out of my closet and into an empty container, my special box spilled out onto the floor. The razors shone in the dim light, beckoning.

I bent down, picking them us and carefully resituated them into the box. I felt a change was coming, something I'd needed for a long time. Jasper's words echoed in my mind, "Your job is to survive."

I would survive, and I needed no more scars to do it. I tossed the box into the trash and turned off the lights as I left the room feeling full of hope.