Kimora Negron, “The Scar”

THE SCAR

Kimora Negron

Picture this: A tall, 5-foot-4, teenage girl with long black hair and a scar over her left eye. Yep, that’s me. Just an average teen who has literally no friends. People always question my scar, but I don’t really like to open up about my past. My mother always used to say I was unique, one-of-a-kind, and, in some way, different from others. But that’s what she loved most about me. My mom was a spitting image of me. Long black hair, a smiley personality and beautiful eyes—they were hazel, almost golden. And she had a scar just like mine on her arm; I always thought it was a birthmark but it looked very questionable. She was so beautiful. I was born with her same traits except one of my eyes was hazel and one was bluish-green. I had a bright personality, always happy and happy while caring for others before myself at the same time. I got it from her. She used to remind me everyday that I was beautiful; she never let my smile fade away. We would play in the backyard all day and lay in the grass until the sun set. She picked me up and we would go for ice cream and play in the park after school every day. It was the best time I ever had in my life. But one day, when I was in tenth grade, I was waiting for my mom to appear as I waited in the playground with all the other kids while they were waiting to get picked up. I waited and waited and waited, but she never came. Finally, after an hour went by, my dad came and picked me up. It was kind of odd. He was never around or at home. He always worked. So it was really just me and Mom all the time. But she never missed a day to pick me up from school. As I got in the car, I felt kind of worried. We drove home in silence. “Dad, is there something wrong?” I asked as I glared over at him. He looked kinda worried. He said nothing. Knowing that he stood quiet meant something was really wrong. I tried not to worry about it much but the thought of it nagged me. We

finally arrived at our destination after twenty minutes, but we weren’t home. We were at the hospital. Me and my dad both got out of the car and walked toward the entrance of the hospital. He asked the people at the front desk a question and soon as he gave a name and date of birth, my heart dropped. I ran as fast as I could to the room number that was given. “MOM!” I said with shortness of breath. It was my mother. She laid in the hospital bed with pale skin. I was completely hopeless without my mother. She meant everything to me. I was completely lost without her. I stood by her side with a look of sorrow. I looked into her beautiful hazel eyes—they were shining from the glare of light. “Mom, what’s wrong?” I said, looking confused. Mom tried to respond back but she just looked at me and grabbed my hand. Before I could say anything else, I left the room and let her rest. The air turned black all around me as I walked down the cold hospital halls. I decided to take the bus home. My dad stood with my mom for a while. As I stared through the bus window, I thought back to one of my best memories: I am standing in a perfectly pristine kitchen. The counter tops are covered in flour. She stands at them, waiting for me. She’s rolling out the cookie dough in deep, even strokes, like the ocean kissing the beach. Her soft humming fills the kitchen with love. Her hands lift me up; I’m in a navy blue sundress with little yellow sunflowers on it. “Here, sweetie,” she hands me an apron and I lift my little arms obediently to her. She ties it around my waist. A little teddy bear clutching a rolling pin in one soft, brown paw is splashed across my tummy. And beside me, she rolls. I watch the muscles in her taut arms ripple with the pressure. The sunlight makes the sugar glisten and sparkle like glitter. The room smells sweetly of the confections we are working so diligently to create. She smiles at me and gestures toward the cookie cutters. I will always remember that day; it meant a lot to me. The bus stopped in front of my house and I got off and crossed the street. I arrived home and dropped my bag. I picked up my

phone and looked at the screen reflecting toward my face and glared at my scar. Soon, I fell asleep. I awoke the next morning to fifteen missed calls from my dad. I quickly jumped up and got dressed. Before I could even leave through the front door, someone knocked. I opened it and it was dad. “Dad, what are you doing here? I was just about to come and meet you,” I exclaimed. He looked downhearted. “Hunny, we need to talk,” he said as he walked in. We sat down and he sat on Mom’s favorite couch as he looked down at the ground. His hands slid down the arm of the chair as he sighed. Then, I started to realize what was happening. “Dad, what’s wrong, where’s Mom?” I said in panic. He looked at me, in shock. He began to talk. “Your mother’s been hiding this from us for a while now, but she wanted you to know, she’s been sick for a while now.” I stopped him. “Sick . . . how . . . ?”, my palms were getting sweaty. “She was diagnosed with cancer when you were four but she didn’t want us to worry about her, she just wanted to raise you with a happy life. But one day, something happened—it stayed with her for life. One day she was cooking and you were helping her out in the kitchen, she was boiling water on the stove, a stirring spoon had then fallen. You and your mother reached to get it at the same time and she accidentally knocked the pot of boiling water over spilling on both of you. Before it had fallen you looked up causing it to scar your face and your mom’s arm.” I was shocked. “Where is she now, can we go see her?” I asked. “She’s gone, sweetie,” he said. I didn’t know what to say or think. All I had left was this dumb scar on my face, which she also had. I touched my face, I trembled. I didn’t know what to feel, think, or say. I just knew that I lost a big part of me. I just tried to be strong for my dad. We talked more about the situation. I would now stay with my

grandparents since I was now alone. My dad was barely around, so there was no point staying with him. Then, I led him out to his car. I closed the door behind him and fell to my knees. I was numb and faking a smile. She died and I didn’t even get to say goodbye. Why was I so stupid? I walked out of that hospital not knowing what was gonna happen next. I sobbed into my knees. I finally went to get up and wiped my tears away. Then, I stumbled into a mirror, almost knocking it down. I went to put it back where it was before and took a quick glance at myself. I looked back so quickly, in shock. I thought I was seeing things, or maybe I was dreaming. The scar was gone . . .

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