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Scars are an intriguing trait that can draw attention to any man, woman or child. They are interesting in so many ways, because each scar is unique. The difference in the specific trauma, depth and size, recovery and personal differences make each scar quite telling. Some tell a story of an adventure, staying as a cherished memory of times past. Others are meant to remind of tragedies that people overcame to become stronger.
Her scars were different.
Her scars told a story — most definitely — but it was a terrifying story of a life filled with pain and torment. She was a survivor, but she didn’t take much pride in her scars — they were too many, too deep and too significant.
Roxanne never liked to show her scars to anyone, having acquired a very harsh habit of keeping to herself and being reserved. More than that, she preferred to wear clothes that covered most of her body — including her palms, which she always covered with fingerless biker’s gloves.
To her defence — she owned a great motorcycle, which suited her dark and stand-offish demeanour.
Ever since she turned nineteen she was on the road, running from everything that happened to her in the past. The only connection she had left was with two people, who helped her when she was at her worst.
Rox glanced aside to the telephone in the tiny motel room she was staying at to wait out the heavy rain. With a heavy sigh, she moved it closer and dialled the number she knew by heart. She did have a phone of her own, of course, but she didn’t like to use it for calls like this. Perhaps, she was afraid that the only people who she considered family would set off to find her.
“Hello?” the low, gruff voice of a man in his late forties sounded on the other side of the line.
Rox swallowed hard before saying:
“Hello, Jack.”
“Rox! Damn, girl! You had me worried there for a bit!” the man immediately changed his tone, now sounding happy to hear her. “How are you? Where are you?”
“I’m…” the young woman sighed heavily, glancing at her bandaged arm. “I’m fine, Jack. Nothing to worry about. As to where I am…”
“I know, I know, you won’t tell me anyways.” Jack replied with a chuckle. “I’m still happy to hear your voice.”
“How have you been? How’s Sarah?”
“We’ve been better. Sarah misses you like crazy. Keeps asking if you’re coming back anytime soon…”
Something in his tone made Rox tense up:
“Did anything happen?”
For a moment the line remained silent before Jack grunted:
“Someone’s been looking for you, kid. He came by the police station yesterday.”
Rox felt her back stiffening:
“Who?”
“A guy. Some hotshot private investigator from Kingston.”
“Did he say his name? What did he look like?” Roxanne tried hard not so sound panicked.
“Tall, handsome. Dark hair, blue eyes. Drove a Mustang. The name is…” Jack ruffled through something, then continued. “Ah, there we go… Deacon Williams.”
“Shit.”
“You alright, kiddo?” Jack audibly tensed up. “You’re not in any trouble, right? He said he wanted to question you about some case he’s working on, but I never said where you are, as… you know, I don’t even know where you are at all.”
