Undefeated

Part 9: Like Me

    "Wear these in public from now on," Mila suggests and gives me a small cardboard box. I open it and am instantly confused at what I'm seeing.

    "What are these?" I ask her while trying to pull them apart.

    "They're surgical masks," she says. I jolt slightly at the word surgical and she notices. "Not for anything medical, though! Just to hide your face so no one can find you in public."

    I nod slowly and bounce my leg, sinking into the back cushion of the couch.

    "May I ask what triggered your panic attack?" She sits beside me and crosses her knees, grabbing a pillow and hugging it on her stomach.

    "The cameras," I mumble and twirl a piece of my hair. "I don't like them."

    "The cameras themselves or the thought of being in photos?"

    Huh, I never thought of that. "I guess it started with discomfort of being in photos, and it eventually became a fear of cameras."

    "Thanks for telling me," she says in a gentle voice. "That means a lot."

    I smile and she ruffles my hair.

    "When Dane gets home from classes, I'm going to go visit a friend for a bit. Is that alright with you?"

    "Yeah, it's fine as long as I'm not alone."

    "Okay. He should be home in around five minutes or so, I'm going to get ready."

    She leaves the room and I feel the atmosphere surrounding me become darker and heavier. The thought of the message on Dane's phone pushes it's way from the back of my mind straight to my entire conscious thought.

    I haven't told him about it. If he has a scar on his neck that he doesn't find sightly, then he probably doesn't want it to be mentioned either.

    After all, I don't want to ever talk about my scars.

    Since I found out he had a scar on his neck, I've also been extra careful to not look at where it might be. Either I make eye contact with him, or I'm looking in a completely different direction.

    I get off the couch and walk over to the movie pile, the one that Mila had me look through. I find Beauty and the Beast and set it up just the way she had taught me.

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Dane's POV, two hours later
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Imogen and I are sitting on the couch, eating pizza. She didn't know what it was at first, but now she's on her fifth slice.

She's wrapped up in a blanket and resting with her legs on the cushion. I'm on the opposite end of the couch, resting my jawline on my hand.

Somehow, my eyes are drawn to her. Which is ridiculous, because we're watching Guardians of the Galaxy. One of my favorite movies.

I can't help but notice her long hair is brushed aside, exposing her neck. Exposing a series of scars. Small ones, but they're visible if you look carefully enough.

The small, pink spots of raised skin stretch all the way from her earlobes to below her shirt collar. One long, straight line. Too straight.

She moves to scratch her neck and lightly flinches when she touches the scar. She puts her hands back in her lap and keeps focusing on the movie.

That scar is too straight, it's way too perfect. I can't possibly imagine this being an accident.

Suddenly I'm admiring her hands. The hands that have supposedly played Moonlight Sonata's 3rd Movement before. I can only imagine what they look like as they're dancing along the piano.

They must move so smoothly, she pretended she was playing the piano in the car yesterday and it was so graceful.

The movie eventually ends and I stand up from the couch.

"I'm gonna go and mow the lawn, okay?" I ask. Her twinkly eyes look at me and she nods, giving me a close-mouthed smile.

I rush outside and grab the lawn mower out of the garage, moving it to the grass.

I pull the cord and it roars to life, slicing every fresh grass blade beneath it. I begin to push it and look around.

I didn't need to mow the lawn, why did I come out here?

Maybe I was embarrassed. Maybe I felt awkward. Yet at the same time, I felt comfortable.

The thought of Imogen's scar on her neck crosses my mind once again. She has scars that seem too perfect to be accidental, gets panic attacks and nightmares, and seemed somewhat afraid to talk to me when she first met me.

I might be overthinking things, but she might have been through something traumatic.

She might have PTSD.

Like me.

If she really has been covering up trauma, she has been amazing at hiding it.

Like me.

She's so good at pretending she's okay, and tends to change the subject when we try to talk to her about it.

Like me.

I guess we aren't so different, after all.

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Ten minutes later
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I reach the last of the yard and finally turn off the lawn mower's engine, leaving a ringing in my ears. My legs drag as I bring the lawn mower back into the garage, happily shutting the garage door behind me as I enter the house again.

The ringing in my ears has faded away. A sound I have heard many times fills the house. A sound that makes my heart sink and my throat tighten.

A sound I haven't heard in over two years is creating a heavy, suffocating atmosphere that squeezes me in every direction.

I slowly walk to the source, the room I haven't dared step foot in since that day. The door is cracked open, the only light coming from inside being the sunlight through the dusty blinds.

I stop at the doorway and look in, refusing to walk any farther.

Imogen is sitting there, facing away from me. Her hands are dancing along the piano keys. The old, dusty piano that I haven't gathered the courage to play nor get rid of.

She's playing Spring by the famous classical composer Vivaldi, one of the four seasons he wrote.

I can hear some mistakes here and there, but she keeps going. If someone was listening to her play this and had no idea what it was meant to sound like, they wouldn't notice a single mistake.

I don't even notice myself crying until she stops at the sound of my sniffles. She quickly runs up to me and gently puts her hands on my upper arms.

"Are you alright, Dane? Did you get hurt?" She backs up slightly and quickly scans my body for injuries. I frantically wipe away my tears.

"It's fine, you're just really good at piano." A red hue grows onto her cheeks and she scratches the back of her neck.

"Really? I haven't played in..." She hesitates and stares at the ground. "Forever."

"You covered up your mistakes really well," I whisper in fear of my voice cracking from the crying.

"Thank you," she mumbles. "Do you play?"

I stifle a gasp and look at her with wide eyes. "I used to, I suppose."

"Play something for me!" She giddily claps her hands and bounces up and down. Sh*t.

I haven't played anything at all on the piano since I played for her long ago. The night she ruined my life was the night I lost all of my dignity.

Imogen is looking at me with disappointed eyes. "It's okay if you don't want to, I understand."

She starts to leave the room, but I move in front of her last second before she passes the doorway.

"Wait!"

She steps back. "What is it?"

"I'll play for you."