Scars

Four

Lia slowly curled and uncurled her fist, watching the muscles and bones twitch and flex. She watched as the patterns of her ugly scarred flesh writhed around her veins, interceded here and there by a few patches of healthy golden skin.

"It's spreading," she said aloud, "Write that down. Two new sections of scarred skin appeared on my left hand. Third moon of the year, waning gibbous. No wait. Three."

The boy she was speaking to looked slightly miffed by her order, but he grabbed a nearby scrap of parchment and scribbled down her words, "Three scars, third moon. I'm here for emotional support, not secretary work," he grumbled, "If I'd known you were going to have me write things, I would've just stayed in class,"

"That's very sweet of you, Edgard," Lia said.

"I know," he grinned.

Lia almost smiled back, but she resisted the urge.

Unfortunately, it was getting harder.

The corners of his mouth would lift, and his golden eyes would twinkle, and in this specific instance, warm, yellow rays of light from the window shone on his messy red hair like tongues of fire. He always looked so alive... so happy.

"Edgard," she said.

"Hm? More things to write?"

"Pain is probably a six, but the heat and burning sensations are nearing seven. The wet rag didn't help, but whatever medicine Tom found in the basement cupboard did."

"Really?"

"Yep."

"Okay," he grabbed the stick of charcoal and lazily jotted it down, "Pain six, heat seven, rag no, medicine yes. You're sure the medicine helped?"

"Several of my more severe symptoms were eased exactly five minutes after ingestion,"

"We should look through the sketchy bottles in the basement more often."

"I wouldn't push our luck."

"You're probably right," he grinned. Again.

Lia ignored the slight rush that accompanied it, "You know, I'm starting to come to the conclusion that you want me dead. You're always so cheerful when I'm on my deathbed."

"Deathbed seems a little dramatic. I just like it when you're sick,"

"Nevermind," she said, "I can see where this is going."

Edgard beamed dangerously, "No, no, you can't stop me now,"

Lia sighed.

"You see, I—"

"EDGARD!" A heavyset woman lumbered into the attic, breathing heavily. Her face was flushed tomato red, but whether from anger or from exercise Lia didn't know. If she were to bet, she would wager on the former. Edgard was a fairly infuriating person, and this lumpy nosed creature looked like one of the chefs.

"Chef Dilt?" he asked. His eyes widened slightly in practiced innocence, "That rapscallion thief didn't target your meatloaf again, did he?"

The bulky chef, garnished in her bloody white apron, loomed over him like a beast from a fairytale. Her teeth gleamed in an ugly snarl. The slender tall boy in his black tunic and trousers was, in Lia's mind, vaguely reminiscent of a stick figure in contrast.

"Edgard Akten Snow!" she yelled shrilly, "I will peel off your skin and plaster your remains to my—" a sudden flicker of intelligence entered the chef's consciousness, and she cracked her blotchy pink knuckles maliciously, "Oh. Oh ho ho, what do we have here? Edgard Snow skipping class again? I could get you kicked out of the orphanage for that. I could... could I have you executed for that? If all goes well..." she muttered to herself.