"Oh god, did you see that girl?"
"What happened to her face?"
"Jikes, she's ugly!"
"She's so weird!"
"Her eye! Look at her left eye!"
"I don't want anything to do with her."
"Get away, girl. You don't belong here!"
I open my eyes, but they still see the laughing faces from my dream. I breathe irregularly and my heart beats too fast in my chest. My hand goes to my hair and I pull it before my face. I try to be calm, but my dream keeps repeating itself in my head. It's because it's not just a dream, it's a memory.
There is a reason why I left my old town.
I get up and go to the bathroom. There is a mirror. I take a deep breath and look at myself. I strike my hair behind my ear, so I can see my whole face.
So I can see the scar, that runs over the left side of my face. From my eyebrow to my chin. It didn't spare my eye, no, it goes straight through it, which means I can't see anything with my left eye. It has a creepy white colour, which is very outstanding compared with my other dark brown eye. The scar is red against my pale skin, and it reminds me of the pain I suffered from. Not just when I got the scar, but after that I got bullied a lot. I didn't got any friends. No one accepted me. They just laughed at me and said I was ugly.
I am ugly. And it's all because of my scar.
I take the mirror from the wall and throw it away. I scream when it hits the ground, so I can’t hear it breaking. I look at the splinters and I start crying. That’s exactly how I feel. Broken.
After I calmed down again, I change clothes. I still wear the same clothes I wore yesterday. I choose a black shirt and black jeans, and of course my black All Stars. I don’t know why I only wear black. Maybe it shows how I see the world.
I make sure my hair hides my scar and I put on my beanie, before I leave the house. I decided to go and thank the old woman for the house. I remember what she said, just before she went back to her own house. “Stay here as long as you need.” It sounded like she knows why I’m here. But she can’t, I don’t know her. When I arrive at her front door, I hear someone shouting: “I’m here, girl, at the back of the house!” I walk towards the voice, and I see the woman sitting in an old chair at the porch. She isn’t doing anything, she just sits there. “Did you see me coming?” I ask, but I doubt that. I remember she couldn’t see me well last night. “No, I can’t see anymore,” she responds, like I thought she would say. “But I expected you.”
She expected me. That’s weird, isn’t it? I sit down on the other chair, but it seems so old that I’m afraid it will break. It doesn’t. “Thank you,” I say. “For the house. Are you sure it doesn’t bother you that I live there?” “No, of course not. There hasn’t lived anyone in that house for years,” she tells me. “Whose is it?” I ask. “I don’t know exactly,” she replies. “But I’ll tell you a story. It’s an old story, but everyone knows it here. It’s about a girl with a scar.” My eyes turn big and I hold my breath. What does she mean? A girl with a scar. Automatically, my hand goes to my own scar, and just feeling it makes me want to cry. The woman goes on: “She would’ve lived here many years ago. She built this village, along with a boy. His name was Troy MacKay, but we don’t know the girl’s name. They lived in harmony and more people came to live in this village because of them. Because of them, everyone was happy. But then, there was a fire. It burned down everything. Only the boy survived. They searched for other survivors, but they just found dead bodies. And they never found the girl’s body. It just disappeared. We know the boy stayed here, because there is still a family named MacKay, of whom we know they are descendants of the boy. The people believe the girl will come back again too. Then we will all be happy again.”
I’m speechless. This town lives on a story. And somehow it feels like I know the story, like I heard it before. Why do I feel related to it? What has it to do with me? Who’s the girl?
I can’t be the girl, can I?
“What about the MacKay family?” I ask, just to stop thinking about the girl. “Do they rule this town?” “Oh no, my dear! Everyone is equal here,” she says.
Everyone is equal. I’ve never heard anything more beautiful in my life.