The Scars She Hid From The World

"Game on, brother," she whispered to the empty road.

The words were a puff of vapor in the biting wind, a promise made to the fading taillights that had just abandoned her. A moment ago, she had been inside that bubble of warmth and leather. Now, she was outside, and the story of how she got here began with a sound.

The heavy iron gates of the Wilderness Correction Camp groaned as they slid open. It was a sound like a dying animal, metal grinding against rusted metal.

Clarisa Dillon didn't flinch.

She stood on the other side of the perimeter, the wind whipping sand and grit against her cheeks. Her skin felt too tight for her face. Her eyes were dry. She hadn't blinked in what felt like hours.

The warden, a man with a neck as thick as a tree stump, tossed a clear plastic bag onto the dirt at her feet.

"Good luck, 402," he grunted. He didn't use her name. She hadn't heard her name spoken with anything other than disdain for three years.

Clarisa stared at the bag. Inside was a toothbrush, a cheap comb, and a small, leather-bound notebook. It wasn't something she had stolen; it was something she had earned the right to keep through sheer, bloody-minded survival, a secret she had smuggled out by sewing it into the thin lining of her hoodie every morning for a month. It was her life. It was everything she owned.

She bent down. Her spine popped audibly. Her movements were stiff, calculated, like a machine that hadn't been oiled. She snatched the bag before the wind could take it.

A black stretch Lincoln Navigator appeared on the horizon, cutting through the dust clouds. It looked like a hearse.

It stopped exactly three meters away.

The driver got out. He was wearing white gloves. He opened the rear door, his eyes darting to her face for a split second before looking away. There was pity there. Clarisa hated pity more than she hated the warden.

She walked toward the car. Every step was a negotiation with her body. Left foot, plant. Right foot, drag slightly. Don't limp. Don't show them you're broken.

She slid into the backseat. The door thudded shut, sealing her in a vacuum of silence and expensive leather.

Brady was there.

Her brother wore a navy suit that probably cost more than the camp's entire annual budget. He was typing on his phone, his brow furrowed in annoyance. He didn't look up for a full minute.

The air in the car smelled of sandalwood and conditioned air. It made Clarisa's stomach turn. She was used to the smell of bleach and unwashed bodies.

Brady finally looked up. His eyes raked over her.

She was wearing the grey sweatpants and oversized hoodie the camp had issued her upon release. They were stained and smelled of damp storage.

Brady's nose wrinkled. He pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his face.

"Three years," he said, his voice muffled by the silk. "I thought you would have learned some hygiene. At least taken a shower."

Clarisa stared straight ahead. Her eyes were unfocused, looking at the partition between them and the driver. She said nothing.

Silence was the first weapon she had forged in the dark.