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Cover picture generated with AI Dream by Wombo
© Damantha Makarova, 2026
ISBN 978-5-0065-6453-4
Created with Ridero smart publishing system
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Scars are an intriguing trait that can draw attention to any man, woman or child. They are interesting in so many ways, because each scar is unique. The difference in the specific trauma, depth and size, recovery and personal differences make each scar quite telling. Some tell a story of an adventure, staying as a cherished memory of times past. Others are meant to remind of tragedies that people overcame to become stronger.
Her scars were different.
Her scars told a story – most definitely – but it was a terrifying story of a life filled with pain and torment. She was a survivor, but she didn’t take much pride in her scars – they were too many, too deep and too significant.
Roxanne never liked to show her scars to anyone, having acquired a very harsh habit of keeping to herself and being reserved. More than that, she preferred to wear clothes that covered most of her body – including her palms, which she always covered with fingerless biker’s gloves.
To her defence – she owned a great motorcycle, which suited her dark and stand-offish demeanour.
Ever since she turned nineteen she was on the road, running from everything that happened to her in the past. The only connection she had left was with two people, who helped her when she was at her worst.
Rox glanced aside to the telephone in the tiny motel room she was staying at to wait out the heavy rain. With a heavy sigh, she moved it closer and dialled the number she knew by heart. She did have a phone of her own, of course, but she didn’t like to use it for calls like this. Perhaps, she was afraid that the only people who she considered family would set off to find her.
“Hello?” the low, gruff voice of a man in his late forties sounded on the other side of the line.
Rox swallowed hard before saying:
“Hello, Jack.”
“Rox! Damn, girl! You had me worried there for a bit!” the man immediately changed his tone, now sounding happy to hear her. “How are you? Where are you?”
“I’m…” the young woman sighed heavily, glancing at her bandaged arm. “I’m fine, Jack. Nothing to worry about. As to where I am…”
“I know, I know, you won’t tell me anyways.” Jack replied with a chuckle. “I’m still happy to hear your voice.”
“How have you been? How’s Sarah?”
“We’ve been better. Sarah misses you like crazy. Keeps asking if you’re coming back anytime soon…”
Something in his tone made Rox tense up:
“Did anything happen?”
For a moment the line remained silent before Jack grunted:
“Someone’s been looking for you, kid. He came by the police station yesterday.”
Rox felt her back stiffening:
“Who?”
“A guy. Some hotshot private investigator from Kingston.”
“Did he say his name? What did he look like?” Roxanne tried hard not so sound panicked.
“Tall, handsome. Dark hair, blue eyes. Drove a Mustang. The name is…” Jack ruffled through something, then continued. “Ah, there we go… Deacon Williams.”
“Shit.”
“You alright, kiddo?” Jack audibly tensed up. “You’re not in any trouble, right? He said he wanted to question you about some case he’s working on, but I never said where you are, as… you know, I don’t even know where you are at all.”
“Yeah…” Rox cleared her throat. “I’m fine, Jack. I’m just…”
“Rox, you know that you can trust me, right? If you’re in trouble, just say so…”
“Jack, everything’s fine.” Roxanne ruffled her black hair. “It’s just… I used to date the guy.”
“Oh. That makes sense… he was asking a whole lot of personal questions.”
“Like?”
“Well, he was interested why I’m listed as your emergency contact, but we share no last name. I told him straight up that it’s because I took you in after your family died, and that’s it.”
“What else was he trying to find out?”
“Your whereabouts and ways to contact you, but I couldn’t give any of that information.”
“That’s good.”
“He did request your file, though.”
Rox swallowed hard:
“Really?”
“My guys didn’t know, so… they gave it to him.”
A wave of shivers ran through her body:
“It’s fine. It’s not like he’ll find any indication where to find me in those files.”
“Rox?”
“Yes, Jack?”
“Tell me the truth, kiddo. Are you, really, alright?”
“I am, Jack. I’m… not that far from… home.” she struggled with the last word. “I wanted to drop by in the next few days, I just… got held up with something.”
“Work?”
“Something like that.” Rox forced a chuckle. “It’s storming here. I can’t ride out until the rains stop. So I’m stuck in this tiny little town called Latchford.”
“It’s the first time you’ve ever mentioned a place, Rox.” Jack grunted again. “Why do I feel like you’re in trouble, even though you’re saying you’re not?”
“I’m not sure, Jack.” Rox finally admitted. “I might be. But I’m not sure.”
“You’re only a few hours from home. Why didn’t you…”
“I told you, I got held up with something.”
“Rain has never stopped you from travelling.”
“The storm is only an excuse. I have a little matter to settle around here before I can come visit you guys.”
She heard Jack sigh heavily:
“Alright, kiddo. Just… be careful, alright?”
“Always am, Jack. And, uh… I should be at your door in two days at most.”
“Our doors are always open for you, kiddo. Sarah will be thrilled you’re coming over.”
“Jack?”
“Yeah?”
Rox realised she could sound more suspicious than before:
“If that investigator is still there and you’ll run into him, you can say I’ll speak with him when I visit you. Did he leave a number?”
“He did, yes. Should I call him?”
“I think you should be the judge of that. You are bound by your badge and all.”
Jack seemed to think it over and replied:
“Alright…” he paused for a few moments. “Roxanne?”
The young woman felt tension in his voice, and knew perfectly that he always used her full name only to emphasise something important he was about to say.
“Yes, Jack?” she replied, glancing at her injured arm.
“If you do get in trouble, give me a call, alright?”
She couldn’t hold in a smile that crept to her lips:
“Yes, Jack.”
“And call me when you’ll be near, so that I could tell Sarah to prepare her famous pecan pie for you.”
Rox chuckled:
“I will.”
“It was great hearing from you, kiddo. I’m looking forward to seeing you.”
“Me too, Jack. Me too. I’m hoping the matter I’m busy with won’t take long.”
“You’re a capable young woman, so I’m sure you’ll do better than you think.” Jack chuckled.
“I missed this.” Rox sighed. “Thank you. And good night.”
“Good night, kiddo. See you soon.”
“Yeah. Bye.” the woman hung up, grasping at her head.
She was so tired from the long road and her investigations that took her all over the country. And though she found something she was good at, every new job brought her some sort of an undeniable feeling of an impending doom hovering ahead.
Rox looked at the first ever scar she received. The only one on her body associated with a good memory.
Her left palm held a small double scar of a very old injury, from when she was a child.
She never really had memories of her childhood, but she could recall the time she was about five or six years old. She remembered the day vividly, when she tripped and fell in the yard, piercing her hand on a rusty nail.
It was a fine day, sunny and warm, with the soft wind blowing quietly and making the trees all around rustle and creak. The yard wasn’t fenced – they lived in a forest, surrounded by nature – and Rox was running around playing ball, while her mother was busy sewing something on the patio.
But somewhere along the run Rox felt her ankle twisting from catching onto a branch she didn’t notice. Falling down, the girl didn’t even scream, although her palm landed on a small piece of wood, pierced by a rusty old nail. Rox still remembered how she got up silently, clutching her aching hand and looking at the blood dripping down to the ground.
She was a strange kid, never crying when hurt, but her mother always knew if something wasn’t right. when Rox turned to her mother – a slim, small woman with beautiful blonde hair and blue eyes – ran up, helping the girl to the kitchen. Being a nurse, the woman cleaned the wound before bandaging her hand.
Rox still remembered the warmth of her hands and the gentle touch, while she was taking care of the wound.
While her mother was alive, everything seemed to be good and tolerable, even though three older brothers kept bullying her every chance they got. Her mother protected her as much as she could, but whenever she was at work, Rox would get new bruises from the punches her brothers threw at her for the smallest reasons.
When Rox turned twelve, her mother suddenly fell ill and soon passed away. Rox still remembered the feeling of helplessness, hearing how her mother cried only a week before she died. Cancer was brutal and inoperable, claiming the life of the woman swiftly. Even though they seemed to be fine money-wise – the treatment was too late to be administered to save the life that meant so much.
Rox closed her eyes and felt a sigh escaping her lips. After her mother was buried on the cemetery, the family dynamic switched drastically. It wasn’t subtle at all – one night her father got blackout drunk, which was so unlike him. And her brothers used this, by cornering her in the shed, when she was busy putting the last of her mother’s stuff away.
That day she was raped for the first time.
If she knew then what she knew now – she might have had some kind of a fight to protect herself. But back then she was a scrawny girl who was grieving her mother’s passing.
Rox opened her eyes and grasped her wrist, where another scar tainted her skin. The restraints her brothers used to incapacitate her cut deep into the flesh. If that would have been an isolated incident, then, maybe, the scars wouldn’t be so prominent. But she suffered from her family’s abuse for three long years.
Her father beat her whenever she felt sick or weak, forcing her to take over all the household chores her mother used to do. And when he would be out from drinking all day, her three brothers would find a moment to catch her off-guard again.
Sometimes she managed to hide from them. Sometimes – they found her to do as they pleased.
The first time she saw their faces twisting and changing, she thought it was her mind playing tricks on her, making their features animalistic, demon-like. For a bit she even thought she was losing grasp at reality.
If she would have been able to go to school, maybe she would have been able to speak to a psychiatrist or a teacher about her troubles, but since her father pulled her from school to keep things done around the house, she wasn’t able to do any of that. And the pure horror she felt from threats her brothers threw at her made her fearful to run anywhere.
The day she turned sixteen was another harsh memory burned into her mind. Because it was that very day she got other scars that now covered most of her body.
Rox walked over to the bed and lied down, unable to shake off the flow of horrific memories that flooded her mind.
A bright flash appeared from behind the curtains, followed by the low, heavy rumble of thunder.
That night there was no rain – just the dry storm with flashes of lightning overhead and the thunder growling in the skies above. Rox was almost asleep by the time when she heard her father returning home much later than usual. Hunkered in the attic, the girl couldn’t hear him conversing with his sons, but the new, unfamiliar sound made her jump up from the dirty, dust-filled old matrass and crawl down to the second floor staircase.
It was a scream – a crying she knew to be not belonging inside their house.
A child, an infant somehow made its way inside, and the sound of the baby wailing filled Rox with horror – whatever her family was plotting, it wouldn’t be good. She sneaked down unseen and unheard, only to see her father downing a tablespoon of whiskey into the baby’s throat.
The child coughed, crying, but soon seemed to calm down.
The man left the bundle on the armchair, walking off into the deep dark hollow of their basement, where the three boys were doing something – by the sounds of it, clearing the floor out from the boxes and other stuff that was stored there for years on end.
Rox approached the child and found it sleeping.
Feeling unsettled, she went to see what was happening in the basement.
It was then she saw her whole family looking unlike themselves. Everything about them was different – the skin cracked, fingers elongates and crooked, eyes pitch black and filled with an undeniable hatred. Her father turned in the candle-lit basement and Rox saw his features sharp, demonic and dark.
Her brothers, busy with drawing something on the cement floor, looked no different – changed and freakish, growling something indistinguishable under their breaths, as if chanting a terrible curse in some unknown language. She had already seen them like that every time they tormented her. But only now she felt like everything was starting to make sense.
Rox saw the curved blade appearing in her father’s hand and immediately understood that the baby was in grave danger. Whatever fear she had before retreated behind the thought that she needed to protect the infant and save it from her family, no matter the cost.
She hurried back to the child, but heard heavy footsteps behind. When she picked the baby up – now sleeping soundly in her arms – she saw her father approaching with a grimace of hate on his inhuman face.
“Give her back, you whore!” he roared.
And when Rox darted to the door, she felt something bursting behind. A strange, sulfuric smell filled her nostrils, and the wooden floor immediately caught fire, but a moment later something hit her back, making her stumble from the immense pain. She pressed the baby to her chest, covering it with her body, and felt another slash hitting her, making her fall down onto her knees.
Hot blood poured down her skin, but she didn’t let go of the child, silently crying and hoping someone would help.
Alas, there was no one there.
Through the pain and panic she saw an iron poker lying under the couch, next to which she was curled up on the floor. In a desperate attempt she grabbed it and swung blindly behind her. The wet crack that followed caught her by surprise. The hit found purchase in her father’s knee, throwing him to the floor. Finding the moment of respite, she jumped to her feet, only to face her brothers – grinning and growling with their teeth sharp and their faces animal-like, they tried circling around her.
But at that moment she was no longer the tormented girl they always cuffed to the bars of the bed. She was an animal, caught among the flames of the raging fire that ate away at everything she used to call home – the furniture, walls and floorboards were already burning down.
She managed to hit two of her brothers, avoiding their slashing hits – sharp claws barely reaching her. But the last one was stronger. He caught her arms and twisted it, making her lose the poker. In a sudden rage she kicked the young man in the groin, but he barely felt it. However, her blood helped her – when she jerked her hand away, his fingers slipped on the blood, letting her go, and she darted past the young man to the entrance.
Behind her she heard something crashing, but didn’t look back, running out and holding the baby, who seemed to start fussing a little from being woken from his deep slumber. She ran, hearing the roaring fire and crashing of her home, until she slipped and fell to her knees, crying and gasping for air.
Rox didn’t remember how long she was sitting there, rocking the baby in her arms, until she realised that people were approaching her, lit up from behind by multiple differently-coloured lights.
Even though the firefighters got there, the house burned down to embers, leaving only the four skeletons of what used to be her family. It took some time for the medics to calm Rox down and have her pass them the child, who, in fact, was quite fine.
She might have survived that night, but her possessed family left Rox with lots of scars from their demonic claws.
Jack was there when they found her with the baby in her arms and later, when she woke up in the hospital, bandaged and sedated. Sheriff Jack Hills was an honourable man, who helped her even after she was discharged.
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