Stop! Read online

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  Copyright © 2015 Alison G. Bailey

  All rights reserved.

  Interior book design

  Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats

  Cover Design

  Murphy Rae Hopkins, Indie Solutions

  http://www.murphyrae.net/

  Photographer

  Abigail Marie, Non'Pareil Photography

  http://www.nonpareilphotography.com/

  Editor

  Linda Roberts

  Cover Model

  Paige Forsberg

  Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9914744-7-9

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Stretch your mind, open your heart, and expand your understanding.

  MY THROAT CONSTRICTED as I held oxygen in my lungs. When I was on the verge of lightheadedness, I let the air slowly seep out and prayed for courage to take its place. My eyes stayed closed while I counted, waiting a beat between each number before opening them.

  One.

  Beat.

  Two.

  Beat.

  Three.

  Beat.

  Open.

  For thirty seconds, my brain registered shock at the image in the mirror. Every morning for the past year I started my day the exact same way. It was like living in the movie Groundhog Day. Each night my brain reset back to a time when I was Hollis Murphy, high school senior, math geek, and normal. When the dreams drifted in, I recognized myself. I felt like myself. My mind played tricks, fooling me into believing I was the same person in the family photos scattered around the house.

  Each day started with me being convinced that what I’d seen in the mirror the previous morning was a figment of my imagination. But the memory was so vivid that a glimmer of doubt always existed. In order to live in the dream for a little longer, I didn’t look at myself until it was absolutely necessary. And when time was up, what I saw caused my stomach to twist into knots and my breathing to become shallow, just like it did yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that. And the days before that until I had collected an entire year of days.

  As my fingertips timidly brushed over my left cheek, I wondered if the person who stared back at me would ever match the one in my dreams. I quickly pushed the thought away and forced myself to focus on what was happening today. If I lingered too long on the events of the past year I’d lock the door to my room, throw the comforter over my head, and hide from the outside world.

  Been there, done that.

  My parents would be understanding if I bailed on them today. My best friend, Maggie, would make a good attempt at convincing me to step out of my comfort zone. When I wouldn’t budge, she’d eventually understand and support me. No one was pushing me forward or holding me back, except me.

  Three rapid knocks on the door jerked me out of my thoughts.

  “Hollis, are you getting ready?” Mom’s muffled voice filtered through the door.

  “Yeah.”

  “How long will you be? Your dad wants to be on the road before traffic gets heavy.”

  “At least an hour and a half. I haven’t gotten my shower yet.”

  “Okay, but try to be quicker than that.”

  “I’ll do my best, Mom.”

  I owe her at least that much.

  She and Dad have been by my side every step of the way since the accident. My neck and shoulder muscles stiffened at just the thought of the word, accident. I hated the term. It felt like an easy excuse, a simplistic way to understand what had happened to me. Sarah, the counselor who had been assigned to my case while I was in the hospital said that with any trauma, the person had to go through five stages of grief before they could move on.

  1. Denial and Isolation. Check.

  2. Anger. Check.

  3. Bargaining. Check.

  4. Depression. Check.

  5. Acceptance…

  I had an issue with acceptance. I wasn’t in denial. I knew what had happened. It was as clear as the hideous reflection in the mirror. What I couldn’t accept was the theory that it had been a universal happenstance that just decided to blow up in my face. Maybe I was being naïve. Although, I had matured a lot over the past year, disfigurement will do that to a person. I was well aware that at eighteen years old, my outlook on things still held a certain amount of innocence. As much as I tried, I couldn’t wrap my brain around the idea that all the pain I’d been through was due to some random cosmic fuck you. There had to be a purpose. People didn’t suffer for no reason.

  As I waited for the shower to heat, the sight of my phone lighting up with a text caught my attention.

  Maggie: Mornin’, college coed!!

  Me: Mornin’, goofball best friend. ☺

  Maggie: When y’all heading out?

  Me: As soon as I can get my sorry ass in gear.

  Maggie: That could take years.

  Me: Shut up.

  Maggie: I know we said our goodbyes last night. But I wanted to remind you to call me with all the deets on your roommate, and the boy situation.

  Me: Yes ma’am.

  Maggie: You’re gonna do awesome. I love you, Woman.

  Me: Thanks. I hope so. Love you too.

  Maggie was the most amazing friend. She was a natural beauty. She didn’t load her face up with a lot makeup or spend hours on her blond curls. A genuine excitement about life lit up her chocolate brown eyes. She was comfortable in her skin. She was confident and not afraid of what the world had to offer. And next to my parents, she was the kindest person I knew.

  I was told a lot of people visited me the first few days in the hospital. But I was so doped up everyone and everything blurred together. After the morphine fog cleared and I was sent home, all the visitors disappeared. Maggie was the only one who stuck with me. The first six months after the incident people were uncomfortable being around me. My face was in the process of healing and they didn’t know where to look or what to say. They didn’t want to ask rude questions, but they didn’t feel small talk was appropriate either. So, they just stayed away. Not Maggie, though. She was there every day being balls-to-the wall honest with me. She knew instinctively when I needed space to readjust to my situation and when to kick me out of my own pity party. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be taking this first step into a new life.

  Before Mom gave me a second warning, I stepped into the shower and quickly washed. I sat down at the vanity and towel dried my dark auburn hair, twisting it into a high messy bun. Angling my head to the right, I tilted my chin, allowing the harsh light above to brighten my face. The flames had torched almost the entire left side. Thankfully, my eye and nose weren’t involved. Pictures had been taken when I first got to the eme
rgency room. It was routine. But I never looked at them and I didn’t look at myself until a month after they had performed the skin graft.

  I have a hazy memory of a team of doctors in my room discussing among themselves and with my parents the best course of action. The burn on my face was too severe and the risk for infection too high to let it heal on its own. They sliced a large section of skin from my upper thigh and sewed it to my cheek. When I woke up from the surgery, I had a brief moment of clarity. Sobs burst out of me as I realized half of my face had melted away. Mom did her best to get me to believe that once the skin graft healed, I’d look as good as new. After all, the skin used was mine. It would match. But when the bandages came off I didn’t look human.

  Different shades of red flesh in varying degrees of bumpiness replaced what was once smooth clear skin. The scar ran from my temple down to just above my jawline. The edges were ragged in some areas and curved in others. Nothing was consistent, not the color or the texture. It looked as if I had a Rorschach ink blot test tattooed across my cheek. My parents and Maggie put in a good effort as the months passed, telling me how much smoother and clearer my skin looked. I was sure I’d be able to see a big difference if I compared photos from the first month, but that didn’t translate into making me feel less of a freak. I hoped the day would come soon when I could look in the mirror and notice my heart-shaped lips, my long lashes, and my bright blue eyes, instead of this giant splotch.

  My hand shook as I lined up all the items I needed for the transformation—foundation, setting powder, eyeliner, blush, lip gloss, and mascara. I’d been looking forward to this day for months, but now that it had arrived, I was having second thoughts.

  For as long as I could remember, I had wanted to attend Chambers University, which was about a three-and-a-half hour drive from home. Chambers had one of the best math departments in the country. I was a math geek with dreams of becoming a college professor. When I was a kid, my parents bought me a double-sided blackboard, chalk on one side, dry erase on the other side. I used to line up my dolls and stuffed animals across my bed and teach them the multiplication table. I loved the definitiveness of numbers. There was always a right and wrong answer. Black and white, no gray area. I found comfort in that, especially after the incident when my life was nothing but clouded in gray. I was on track to reach my goal when I got derailed.

  The incident happened the early part of the summer before senior year. By the time the school year started, my doctors felt my face had healed enough that I could go back and not miss out on my last year in high school. I was nervous to say the least, but everyone knew what had happened to me and I had gone to school with these people for years. So once I got over the initial jitters, I figured things would go back to normal. I lasted one week before begging my parents to either home school me or let me earn my GED.

  The stares were relentless. They weren’t the good kind either, like when a boy saw a hot girl. Some people looked at me as if they had encountered the elusive Sasquatch. Their face went slack, their eyes grew wide, and their mouths dropped open. I became somewhat immune to being Sasquatched. Usually, once I turned and looked directly at the person, he would quickly dart his gaze away and go about his day. Then there were others who I could tell by the look in their squinted eyes that the word ew was playing on a loop in their heads. They held their ground and let me know in no uncertain terms that I didn’t belong. I was shocked and hurt that these people, who just a few months ago I considered to be friends, were acting like I had the plague. I thought the staring would be the worst of it. That it would fade away after the newness of the freak show wore off. So I went back. The stares continued and were amped up by classroom snickers and hallway snide remarks.

  Then there were the rumors. One claimed the doctors had gotten the skin for my graft from my behind, which garnered me the nickname, ass-face. There was also meat grinder, splotchy, and the timeless freak. I wore long sleeves to hide the scarring on my arms. Mentally, the long sleeves made me feel more secure and comfortable. Living in the south, though, where it was warm most of the year, short sleeves were the norm. Because of my fashion choice, the rumor started that I was a cutter. Maggie tried to set the record straight, but it was useless. I didn’t understand what everyone’s problem was with me. I didn’t do anything to warrant their cruel attention. I just wanted my life back. Once the name calling came into play, it didn’t take much convincing to get my parents onboard with the home schooling idea.

  For the rest of the year, I kept myself fairly isolated. I’d go out with my mom or Maggie shopping, to a movie, or to grab a bite to eat. Maggie came over almost every day or we’d talk on the phone. She was my link to the young adult world. I lived through her, going to all the football games, school dances, and senior prom. I had become quite talented at using my imagination to live a life until a few months ago.

  Maggie and I were hanging out in my room. She was telling me about the college campus visit she had made over the weekend. Maggie had already applied and been accepted to a local university, so why she kept visiting out of town campuses was beyond me.

  Leaning against the headboard of my bed, with my legs stretched out in front of me, I said, “I don’t get why you keep going to these different campuses. You know you’re going to Southern U.”

  Maggie was lying on her stomach across my bed, flipping through the latest issue of Vogue. “I like to keep my options open.”

  “You like to go boy scouting and have college recruiters kiss your ass.”

  “That too.”

  Maggie ran track and was damn good at it, winning all the local and state championships. She had her pick of any college in the country. They all wanted her to come save their women’s track and field programs. But she liked Southern University and didn’t want to leave her family just yet.

  “SU not only has a great track team, but the Greek parties are legendary. The boys are super-hot. I’m sure my husband is among them. And the connections I’ll have after graduation are endless.”

  I suddenly felt jealous of my friend. She wasn’t just making plans for her next date, track meet, or party. She was making plans for her future. My mind raced ahead to what my future looked like. I had applied and got accepted to Chambers toward the end of my junior year. Then the incident happened and with the bullying at school, I figured I’d stay home and take online classes. Better to be safe than sorry. But after taking all the classes, then what? I couldn’t see a future beyond the walls of my house. All I wanted was to live the life I had planned on before my world was turned upside down. I made up my mind that day it was time to start living again.

  My parents were thrilled and scared with my decision. Mom knew when I needed a slight push in the right direction. My dad, on the other hand, wanted to lock me away in a safe cocoon. I knew if things didn’t work out at college for whatever reason, I could come back home and they wouldn’t make me feel like a failure. I’d been confident about my decision until today. Like most things, the idea was more appealing than the reality.

  Digging my finger into the paste-like cream, I scooped out enough to cover the scarred area. The makeup was a heavier consistency than the normal kind bought in a department store. I had to order it online from a company that specialized in theatrical makeup for the stage. Getting an even smooth coat so that it blended seamlessly was tedious and took time. I placed the foundation in the palm of my other hand, pressing and swirling my thumb around to soften it. Once it was pliable, I plastered it over my face.

  Starting at the center of the grafted area, my fingertips moved outward, quickly dabbing the makeup to the edge where it met my untouched normal skin. Once that area was done, I moved to the rest of my face and neck. I then took a Q-Tip, covered the end with foundation and tapped it around my nose ring, making sure even the tiniest of areas were concealed. I had gotten my nose pierced right before school started, thinking people would focus more on the ring than my face.

  #backfired

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nbsp; The makeup was a close match to my normal skin tone, but not exact. The difference was noticeable if I missed a spot, so I worked hard to cover every inch of exposed skin. I felt more comfortable going out in public in full makeup, but I knew deep down it didn’t look natural. I quickly went through the rest of my routine. I loaded the big fluffy makeup brush with setting powder and swept it across my face and down my neck. I finished up with blush, lip gloss, and mascara. I freed my hair from the tie, styling it so that it fell over my left cheek. I liked the added protection I felt from the veil of hair. I threw on a pair of denim shorts, the navy blue Chambers University long-sleeve T-shirt my dad had bought me to show his pride, and my multi-colored stripped TOMS sneakers.

  Driving onto the campus of the university, I kept telling myself this was a good thing. My dream. A new start was what I needed. Unfortunately, my stomach disagreed. Students and parents flooded the campus, carrying boxes and bags bursting at the seams with all the necessities of college life. I pulled into a parking space next to my dorm followed by my parents’ SUV. As I got out of my car, my dad rolled his window down.

  “I’ll go check in and then we can unload.” My gaze focused downward.

  “You okay, Sweets? You want me to go check in for you?” Dad offered.

  I was scared to look up. I couldn’t let him see my nerves. All he needed was one little sign of apprehension on my part and the three of us would be headed back home. In fact, if Dad had his way, I’d stay in my room, only venturing out for meals and holidays. He was a typical protective father, but this past year he’d gone into overdrive.

  I looked past him, not making eye contact. “I’m good. I’ll be right back.”

  I drew in a deep calming breath before crossing the parking lot. Stacked rows of white framed windows ran up the front side of the brown building indicating the four stories of the coed dorm. The double-sided staircase led to a columned front porch. Chambers University had a one-hundred-thirty-year-old tradition. The campus was steeped in history, from the buildings to the giant oak trees that lined the entrance. One of the things that drew me to it, other than the math department, was the atmosphere. It was a fairly large school with a small college vibe.