Scar Tissue

Scar tissue 

I blame a lot on my dad. I hate the way he still haunts me through old, misshapen wounds—scars that itch and burn at the slightest touch. What makes it harder is that my relationship with him wasn’t entirely bad. When I was sixteen, after a brutal fight with my mom, I called him in desperation, and he told me to come over.

On the ride to his place, I stared out the window at a sky patterned with hypertrophic scars. Its flesh was streaked with stains the colour of Fireball shots, as if the sharpness of the city’s light had sliced it open. Behind the fleshy clouds, red tissue ran deep. The trees along the road looked balding and frail, elderly silhouettes reaching for something they had already lost.

When I finally arrived, I broke down. My dad said it hurt him to see me like that. Then he ushered me into his car, cranked Metallica through the speakers, and told me to scream. So I screamed. I hate admitting that it felt freeing. Noise surrounded me inside and out. Noise swallowed me like the mouth of a whale that held me between its baleen plates. 

That’s how memories with my dad always taste: like Fireball shots. Sweet at first, burning all the way down. So yes, I blame him. I hate the way he lingers in me. But what I blame him for most is moving away and starting a new family. How could he give me kindness and support until he decided I wasn’t enough? Even if that kindness was tangled with mistreatment, I can’t pretend it wasn’t there.

Sometimes I think my skin is angry with him, too. It speaks in shades of red. My rosacea feels like a manifestation of buried rage. Red like marinara. Rose buds blossoming from my chin. A red wine nose. Spotting and rotting. Why is it so nuanced? My voice feels trapped behind an abyss of scar tissue. To speak, I have to quiet the wounds, but they always scream louder than I ever can.

I hate how dating my boyfriend has brought me closer to my dad in some ways, and farther from him in others. My boyfriend’s sarcastic humour hits me like whiskey poured over old wounds. I love and hate the way it stings like home. I want to change that. I don’t want his stings to feel more familiar than his hugs.