The Dark and Hollow Places - Carrie Ryan [72]
“Annah,” he says, holding up his hands and turning his head as if I’m naked.
“No!” I shout at him. “You wanted to know why I force people to see how ugly I am. It’s because that’s who I am. It’s all I am.”
I grab his hand and press it to my sternum. His touch is scorching hot and he closes his eyes.
“Annah,” he says again, a plea and a warning.
“You look at me, Catcher,” I growl at him.
He stares down at me, his eyes glistening. I’m panting with rage and humiliation and regret as it dawns on me what I’m doing.
Catcher’s fingers curl against me ever so slightly, the pad of his thumb whispering along one of the scars on the top of my left breast.
I choke back the resentment that crawls up my throat as I yank myself away from him and grab for my shirt and coat. His hand still hovers in the air where my body used to be.
Furiously I turn around and shove my arm through the damp frigid sleeve of my shirt while I stumble away. I want to explain to him about all the times I’ve been taunted for the way I look. About the men who would see me walking through the City and who would shy away when they saw the scars. As if the marks made me worthless.
But how could he understand? He’s beautiful, with high cheekbones and blond hair that falls over his eyes. A crooked smile that burrows inside even the coldest heart. Broad shoulders and long fingers and a heat that’s all-consuming.
Nothing mars his face. His skin is smooth and warm and soft.
He doesn’t understand what it’s like for me to see my sister—so perfect in every way—and how Elias wants her and not me. As if I never could be good enough.
And now Catcher too.
“I think you’re beautiful, Annah,” he says.
I scowl. “I’ve heard those words before,” I choke out, buttoning my shirt crookedly. I don’t dare look at him. I don’t tell him Elias told me that just before leaving me. Just before running away and finding someone else to love.
I throw open the door to the stairwell again, frigid snow seeping through my clothes and burning my skin. “It’s nothing but a lie,” I tell him. I make the mistake of glancing up at him as I stumble down the steps. He stands in the middle of the roof, his hand extended as if he can still feel my flesh under his own.
I’m lying in my bed trembling with the emotions raging through me while I try to find warmth under a dozen quilts. I cringe as I remember the things I said to Catcher. As I remember twirling with him under the snow and how I ruined it all.
I don’t understand how I can know so little about love and how it works. How I can be so bad at it when it’s all I’ve ever wanted.
All I’ve ever known is about leaving or being left.
I’m beating my fist against a pillow in frustration when there’s a knock at the door and my sister walks into the room. I can tell just from a glance that she knows something’s going on.
Without a word she hands me a tin mug of steaming tea and sits on the chair by the window. The only light in the room seeps in from the hallway, yet even so I can see that her white-blond hair is braided, wisps escaping around her head like down feathers. I resist the urge to raise my hand to my own dirty hair and let the tea scald my tongue and burn its way to my stomach. Ever since she’s been back, that little string between us has grown tighter—my awareness of when she’s near and what she’s feeling.
“You’ve been crying,” she says.
Seeing her sitting there, I think about the Forest. Over and over again I think about her on the path. I relive walking away from her and leaving her. The bright red blood dripping along her shin and the sound of her voice calling me.
I see her falling and I’m not there to grab her before she hits the ground. If I’d just been standing next to her, if I’d just been there for her I could have caught her. I could have protected her. We could have made it back to the village and grown up safe and loved.
“What was it like to have a mother?” I