I peel off the bandages and dunk them in the water. Clay and leaves tumble downstream. There’s dirt in my wounds, dirt all over my body. I scrub myself and gingerly dab at the sutures. A dipper flits past and dives through a curtain of water falling down a pile of rocks. I watch and wait. A few moments later, it dashes back out and flies away. It must have its nest there. I smile and, for a moment, I forget what and who I am. 

A small noise hauls me back, the crunch of bare feet on sand. The coarse surface of the rock digs into my butt and I focus on the sensation of stone against skin. I’m undecided whether to freeze, or to wrap my arms around my legs, pull myself into a knot and hide. The familiar urge to disappear raises goose bumps on my skin.

‘Let me,’ Runner says and places a MedKit and my clothes on the rock next to me.

He can see me now. There’s no dirt concealing my skin. I’m scrubbed clean and every scar is as sharp and clear as it gets.

‘You seem…cornered.’ A hand taps my knee lightly. ‘Did I hurt you?’

No, but you will now. I turn to face him, laying myself bare and watching his gaze wander over my body. He reaches out and touches my 1/2986. 

‘This is the first scar you showed me,’ he says and brushes his thumb across it. ‘And the second.’ He places a palm over my DIE. ‘I don’t know what shocks me more. That someone cut this, or that you felt so much pain you cut the others.’

You don’t have to look.

‘Talk to me, Micka.’

‘I can’t.’ You’ll walk away. 

His hand slips off my back. My skin feels cold there now. I watch the crunch of bare feet on pebbles. He kneels in the riverbed, opens the MedKit, and begins cleaning and disinfecting my side. He dabs my skin dry, tapes a bandage over the injury, and moves down to my leg. 

‘I can deal with whatever you throw at me, but I can’t deal with your silence now,’ he says, fastening the gauze around my thigh.

I hold my arms straight out, like an offering. ‘Look at me.’

‘I am.’ He cocks his head as if he’s wondering what I’m getting at.

‘I’m waiting for you to run away. I’m a…I’m a…’ Fuck, I hate crying. I hate the shitty clump in my throat. I want to be strong, set my jaw, and take, without a flinch, whatever life dishes out.

He takes my hand in one of his and places a fingertip on my wrist. ‘I grew up in the desert. I love it; it’s such a beautiful place. I love the sand…’ he traces my freckles with his fingers, ‘…the wild landscape scarred by countless battles…’ a zzzing shoots from this scar all across my body, ‘…the sunsets.’ He runs his hand through my orange hair. ‘I’m looking at you, Micka. What scares you so?’

‘Everything,’ I whisper.

His eyes darken, a frown hardens his features. I owe him an explanation, but I don’t quite know the answer, either. 

‘For a long time,’ I stammer, ‘I was no one. But I chose it; it’s okay.’

Then, the truth forms and words tumble out of my mouth. ‘I chose to be invisible instead of being unwanted. And now, it’s hard to be seen, to be listened to. It makes me vulnerable. The hurt will come back. That’s what scares me.’

He nods; his gaze rests on my face and there’s a deep sadness that makes me want to reach out and touch him. But he’s faster. His fingertips brush my cheek. ‘Don’t disappear, Micka,’ he says softly.