Burns like mine never really heal. Yes, the majority of the pain fades, but they always hurt, like they're trying to remind you of things best left forgotten. And, of course, there are the emotional pains that come from looking like I do.
"Would you please move my pawn to D4?" I pick up Lilly's white piece and move it, already scanning the board for my next move. She usually beats me, but that doesn't keep me from trying.
I'm... not what you'd call an outgoing person, and Lilly is my only friend. She and I spend time together in this room, where we have tea, talk, and play the occasional game of chess. Sometimes I try to remember what it was like before I met Lilly, but those memories aren't-
There it goes again. I close my good eye and take a deep breath, trying to fight off the memories.
I can still smell the smoke, and I can hear my father-
Quickly, without thinking, I take her pawn with my black knight. "Knight takes D4," I all but whisper.
It's enough for Lilly, though, and she frowns slightly. "Hanako, are you all right?"
"Y-Yes," I stammer lamely, looking at the board. ...Ah, I see, that's an illegal move. Moving my knight puts my king in check. "Sorry," I say, replacing her knight and moving my piece back across the board. "I guess I wasn't paying attention."
Another frown, and Lilly hesitates a moment. "Are you sure nothing's wrong? It isn't like you to make such a mistake."
Instinctively I shake my head, then add, "No, I'm fine." Lilly's glassy eyes fail to pick up my head and my hands shaking. They also fail to pick up my disfigurement, and the shudder that passes through my body. The game is forgotten momentarily as, unbidden, memories bubble up from the back of my mind.
Heat. Then, nothing.
What I remember first is pain. The smell of burn salve, the sterile white ceiling of a hospital. Then the pain again. Oh, the pain! I had never imagined a human could feel such agony!
I was disoriented, my eyes wouldn't focus. I blacked out shortly.
Blurred shapes and echoes brought more pain. It felt like I was still in the fire.
A nurse was changing my IV, and suddenly everything came sharply into focus. My nerves were screaming at me; even the dim light in my hospital room was enough to etch every detail into my mind forever. I saw the nurse - a homely woman, no older than thirty - as she flinched, dropping my precious pain medication onto the floor. There was a single window on my left, dark. The sheets smelled rancid yet clean, and I could feel the rough texture on the back of my neck. There was no television, no visitors, no flowers or even plastic plants. My mouth shot open as I convulsed, once, then arched my back sharply, trying to get away from whatever was hurting me so. It didn't help. A silent scream contorted my face. Somewhere in the hallway another person noticed my state, called for help. Even through my bandages I felt the air around me move like sandpaper on my charred flesh; I smelled the musky odors of more nurses and a doctor as they rushed to my side in a vain attempt to hold me down. From the corner of my eye, through the tears, I saw a needle puncture a bit of plastic tubing. Precious moments - moments that felt like years - passed before the darkness enshrouded me once more.
Nurses would change my bandages, and I would cry from the pain. Time passed, but I don't know how much.
When the pain subsided enough for me to hold a conversation, the news came - my father was dead. Numbness greeted the revelation first. Then, sadness.
Tears ran down my face, and despite the pain that shot through my body I curled into a ball and wept. The pain was probably the only thing that let me know that what I was feeling, what I had just heard, was real. I latched onto that feeling and cried, and cried, and cried. My father was dead.
My father was dead.
In that bed, with the bandages that smelled like death, I had time to think, to ask questions. Why did this happen? Why did I survive while my father didn't? Was I going to be able to live a normal life? Answers were in short supply, of course, and when it hurt my heart to think anymore I would escape.
I read. My books were my outlet, they were the way I dealt with the trauma. I escaped into works by contemporary Japanese authors like Kazuo Ishiguro, and wove my way through international bestsellers by Jhumpa Lahiri and Khaled Hosseini. Classics – Kafka, Dostoyevsky, Homer, Akinari Ueda - fell by the wayside as my voracious appetite for books demanded satiation. Anything at the hospital, anything I could get my hands on, just to escape the horror my life had become.
Books, though, they couldn't answer my questions.
The doctors thought it would be a good idea for me to see a therapist - to cope with losing my father and my disfigurement, they said. Though of course they never said 'disfigurement,' they always said 'accident.' But I still had one un-bandaged eye. I could see myself in the mirror.
I – at first – reacted normally enough. I was hurting, and I did appreciate the company, though I was ashamed for looking so hideous and for surviving where my father did not. She insisted that I was not at fault, and that I couldn't have prevented anything. But life is never that simple. I blamed myself for Father's death.
Gradually, as my wounds healed, so did my heart – partially. I left the hospital, some time later, still bandaged and in a wheelchair, still missing my father but not totally convinced I had killed him.
Middle school... I learned to hate in middle school. With passion and dedication I hated every one of my classmates.
I refuse to remember the nicknames.
I can't help but remember the laughter.
"Hanako?" probes Lilly once more, shaking me out of my reverie.
I feel blood rush to my cheek. "Sorry," I mutter, taking another look at the board in front of me. Even so early in the game I can tell I am in trouble. No matter. "Pawn to D5," I say quietly, making the move on the board.
The rest of the game is silent, and eventually - much to my surprise - I manage to win. "Rook to A1, checkmate." I smile, though Lilly can't see it, and brush a bit of hair out of my good eye. "Good game."
"It was, wasn't it?" My friend's long, delicate hand covers her mouth as she laughs lightly. "I must admit, I thought you were lost there toward the beginning."
My hands move to reset the board. "So did I."
Before I can say anything else the door opens and a brown-haired young man pops his head inside. "Miss Class Rep?" he calls tentatively, with the hesitance born of being blind.
"Yes, Keisuke?" She turns her head toward the sound, and the young man does the same.
"Ah, um," he stammers for a second, his face turning red. "The Class President wants to see you."
As quickly as he came he is gone, and Lilly shakes her head slightly. "Why is that boy always in such a hurry?" Turning back to me she sighs. "I suppose I had better go. You know how Hakamichi gets." Her cane is in her hand momentarily, and she stands, looking regal. Her golden hair glints in the sunlight, her soft features carrying a grace I wish I could emulate.
Thinking of the young man's blush, I can't help but giggle. "What's so funny?" asks the blonde girl, smirking slightly.
"Oh, it's just..." I start gathering up the chess men. "I think that boy might have a crush on you."
Lilly's pout makes me laugh again. "Yes, I've been suspecting that for a while myself. And while he is a nice young man, I just don't feel the same way about him." The pout fades to a grimace. "But I am afraid I must go. Will I see you after school?"
"Yes." I smile. She can't see it, but it feels right.
As my friend lets herself out and closes the door, my chest tightens. I can't... I have to go to class, now. It is time.
Sometimes I get like this. Sometimes, other people make me freeze up. My chest aches and my stomach churns; a fear so real and powerful overtakes me that I can't function any longer.
I have not had an easy life. My father is dead – still, sometimes I wonder if I could have prevented it somehow – my body is ghastly and my mind is not my own. In school, in life, people have let me down. I have grown to fear them. My problem is more than simple distrust, or even hatred; I have been conditioned to fear people. I have been ridiculed and ostracized, treated like fine china and a carnival attraction. Through all of this my body has learned. It reacts without my consent, completely shutting down, trying to protect me from the pain I have suffered. I am, simply put, incapacitated by other people.
Two hands tremble – one scarred, one not – as I slide the chess board back onto its shelf. I take a deep breath, steady myself as best I can.
The library beckons.
Down the quiet halls, passing by classrooms with other students, learning, living with their disabilities. Some would say that my disability is not as great as theirs. I don't know that I disagree.
Sliding the door open gently, the dry, paper- and glue-scented air of my sanctuary rushes over me. Oh, how I love to read! More than entertainment, it serves as an escape. Getting away from the people who would ridicule me for not looking "normal," those who mean well but can't help but stare, and the pain of a world without my father – it is for these reasons I return to books time and time again. Reading eases anxiety. The right book can put me to sleep or keep me up all night. Beautiful, flowing prose can sweep me up into the highest peaks of the Himalayan mountains, and the right words can make me feel like I am the one sailing the ocean, wind whipping at my hair and salty spray misting my face. I have met athletes and adventurers, beggars and murderers. I have traveled far and wide, and learned of peoples long extinct. Me, the Girl With No Face!
I take my spot, isolated by walls of books, who do not judge or ridicule, who ask nothing of me but companionship. I settle into the chair and peel back the cover.
Time passes.
My face aches, and I absently caress my charred flesh.
I wonder if I would have been pretty...
