Straight Shot ➳ Oliver Queen

30. Scars

C H A P T E R   T H I R T Y

SCARS

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I stared into the full-length mirror that was positioned in the corner of my bedroom. In the reflection, I could see my bedroom behind me. The walls were a bare red brick and my bed was against the wall, unmade with the pillows tossed about and the white comforter askew. My room was relatively clean aside from a couple random articles of clothing on the wood floor.

I could see myself in the mirror, as well. I was dressed in a grey tank top with thick straps over a black sports bra and matching capri leggings. My hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail that had been up all day on and I had taken off my makeup.

I was never as skinny as Laurel or Sara growing up, but I had always been reasonably fit. I was slim with a bit of muscle accumulated from swimming and occasional gym visits and other assorted activities I had found myself involved in. But I wasn't focused on the cut of my body or the appearance of my hair or face.

I slipped the hem of my fitted tank top up so it rested around my waist. I had been allowed to remove the bandages about a week ago, but I had opted to change them quickly rather than uncovering the healing wound left from the night I was shot. I didn't remember much after being shot. I just remembered the Arrow and more blood than I had ever imagined I would ever see pouring from my own body.

I had been scared to see the true marks left behind by the bullet. I knew there were additional marks– incisions and stitches done by a surgeon to remove the bullet and repair damage. But as I removed the bandage, I saw the reality of the wound.

It was healing quicker than I had been told it would, but then again, the doctors had also believed it to be a fact that I was going to die.

I had tried not to think about the night in the hospital when I had laid in the bed, fully aware that I was dying. I had wished I hadn't overheard the doctor talking to Tommy. I wished I had been lying in oblivion and just waiting for the pain to pass rather than festering in the fear of no longer being alive.

I gently brushed my fingertips across the wound, just left of my navel. The surgeons had done an excellent job making the wound seem minor. It appeared only as a fleshy scab and simple stitches extending from it. But I couldn't be fooled. I knew that this little mark had almost killed me.

The scab would heal into a pink scar and I would forever be reminded of the night I lay staring at the ceiling, physically paralyzed, and wallowing in a terrified state, knowing I was going to die.

When a knock on the front door echoed through the apartment, I quickly slipped the hem of my shirt back over my stomach and smoothed it down, still overly aware of the wound under the fabric. Barefooted, I walked out of my bedroom and through the kitchen and living room to the door. I opened it to find Oliver standing in the hallway.

He smiled when he spotted me, habitually tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket, which he wore over a dark blue button down shirt with tailored jeans. "Hey, Katie." He greeted.

"Hi," I responded simply, leaning against the door. "What are you doing here?" I wondered. It was the first time I had spoken to him since I was in the hospital... and since I had seen him with the girl, Helena Bertinelli, at the party Tommy had thrown.

"I realized I still had these." Oliver reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and produced a stack of enveloped held together with a rubber band. I recognized the letters as he handed them to me. "I thought I should give them back to you." He finished as I glanced down at my own handwriting addressing the envelopes.