Via Past; Via Present; Via Satellite

Present Tense:

An outside atmosphere is better for your lungs than inside air-conditioning. By exiting through the wooden doors of your home life, and subjecting yourself to an infinite space where anyone and anything can hit the path of your life head-on in a disastrous collision; it's a task in itself.
To push your body to limits as such seemed deeply uncaring and naive. When safety and man made, generated air was in store back in the house that you were about to leave...why would you depart?

You're promised something mild in comparsion to the perfection that was waiting for you on the other side with no guarantees.

Perfection. God that sounds familiar.

About seven months after the "accident" and it's all that consumes my mind. I still have have to face it everyday through the long lined scars that reach from my temple to my lower jaw.
The bottom corner of my left eye to the right side of my nose, and so many others. Some are small flaws that can barely be seen from a human's perspective, and the rest have deemed their remembrance vital.

Every day in front of a mirror has faded, for even a glance sets me off. The irony of me being defective before prom night makes me choke on tears that pour from my mangled sight.
Of course, I stopped the drinking.

If I had another night like that one, I would end up tearing off a limb while laughing.

Usually when I go out in public, I actively practice the Muslim religion. Women are lower than dirt in some countries, and that's how I felt on a daily basis. I own a cloth that covers the vast majority of my face. The first few weeks after I realized that my mistake was permanent, I stayed cooped up in my bedroom with depressing, and even borderline suicidal thoughts.

If I wasn't a monster before, I was surely one now.

I sometimes glance at older images of myself, even though my mother took them all down in fear that it was sadistic punishment that would bring me down to a deeper slump. She had the best of intentions, I knew, but sometimes I felt even more abnormal at the absence of photos.
You walk into the house, into the livingroom, and it's as though my family never lived there. There are only artworks scattered on the walls; creating a distant beauty that makes you feel as though you're in a museum as opposed to a home.

Every once in a while, however, I would find those pictures with me and my mother and father. They would be buried under boxes in the attic or the coat closet in the hallway.
They were stashed treasures to my life before, and really, I loved that life. Maybe not at the time, but now that it sailed away like a balloon that was let go...I had to let it go.

I remember the pathetic mindset that consumed every inkling of my being, and it left me ashamed and remaining ugly. I cried so much thinking about how unappreciative I was; how ungrateful I was for my healthy body and life, and it turned to sobs.
The rest of my eyes would stain my cheeks.

It was like a twisted shopping trip turned wrong. In a ludicrous scenario, you go to the mall to make fun of the clothing you see. A dress catches your bad eye, you pick it up, and you ridicule.The friend who accompanies you might even like it, but you think it's hideous.

A freak accident happens, like the spilling of a drink or a rip in the seam, and you end up having to pay the price for your mistake. You then regret ever making an act out of the piece of clothing and wish to go back in time so everything would be normal again.

You're stuck with something more beastly than before.

Not being able to handle the oncoming, downward emotions, I shut the box. It was a game of Roulette when I opened the photo album; I went a little farther each time, but eventually, the gun would go off and my brains would splatter the wall.

My parents were fast asleep down the hall, for I was reminiscing the pictures in the closet.
I only liked the night time.

Becoming nocturnal was only natural, since I couldn't see my scars in the dark and I was alone. It gave me a small chance to be myself again without the cringing looks and painful double takes.

In the absence of the sun, you are who you want to be.

After I stuffed the memories back towards the corner, rose from the floor, and grabbed my coat. Sometimes if I feel the need, I walk out into the cold streets of Sheffield to experience that biting, fleeting feeling without fearing my exposure.
It was nice to go while the extra pairs of eyes slept and my flaws were out in the open; a minimal rebellion against no one buy myself to cope with my trauma.

I never had to worry about waking anyone up because one, my parents could sleep through an earthquake without even stirring, and also, they knew that I left at night from one occasion to another.

The first time it happened, I never left a hint to my departure.
Not a note, phone call, text, etc.

I was a good distance into town before they randomly woke and had a sleep deprived freak out. Calling my cell frantically, I never answered for the five times and two voice mails they left me because my sedated melancholy was eating up inside.
Surely the structures of the city buildings and emptiness of the streets would cure and make me happy again.

The whole point of the mild journey was to be by myself for even only a while, and I had the temptation to throw my phone against a neighboring brick wall.

When you feel any emotion in its most intense state, everything and everyone around you is irrational to yourself; you look at things as though they're the ones not making sense when it's really you who's in a euphoria or can't think straight.

My dad, when he finally found me, yelled that I could have been raped and murdered in a flash before I even knew about it.
In my rage, I screamed:
"Who the fuck would want to rape this ugly face?!"

Everything stopped.

I could vividly recall the look in his eyes that was full of sadness and regret and shame, probably towards himself. He thought he was just doing his job in ensuring that I wouldn't put myself in danger again, and I shot it down while degrading me at simultaneously.

Two birds with one stone.

He and I were sunken into an awkward, painful silence when I climbed into the backseat; a guilty sensation giving every bone a charlie horse of apology.
I always felt so sickened with my own snide or defecating remarks made toward someone in the heat of my irritation, and after that had vanished, then I had nothing except the remorse. In the adjusted lighting in the vehicle, I could make out the domain of my face; like the back of a fighting slave who kept wanting to escape.

I just wanted to escape.

That's all I was doing once again: getting away from reality so I wouldn't have to deal with the heinous consequences of my actions. It was a full-time job without pay, and I was on break.

The street light approached on the corner of my block, and I walked across the other side so I could purposely avoid it. Even when I knew no one else could possibly be outside like I was, there was always the small, nagging paranoia that instilled a permanent and on-going "what if" to everything I did.
It was doubting that my request for loneliness was being fulfilled, and I continued to hide in the shadows when a light source was bursting.

It was my pathetic, frail personality vomiting through my arms, legs, and torso; that was the type I had become. I felt anxious over everything that could go wrong and never took another chance.

Passing by the streetlight, I felt a sort of idiotic dominance; as though I had conquered my fear and the light itself in a spiteful mocking manner like I was the one to defeat it, even though it was the one to ultimately defeat me with the intimidation factor.
I shook off the imaginary dirt on my shoulder as a tough exterior, then ironically cowered back to the side of the street I was on before.

The trees soon faded behind me as the residential area I had claimed part ownership of was quickly transitioning into a modernized Sheffield that I had always known. Through my different ages of growing up, I perceived the city in various ways.

As a child, it was a curious wonderland that held too many things to try to make a concept out of. As a pre-teen, it was a hassle to visit with my mom unless I was buying clothes or anything else of leisurely value. And now, as a young adult and after the incident, Sheffield meant hell under the sun, and heaven in the dark.

The stores didn't operate at the hours that I often liked to visit, but all that mattered to me was being out in public while the public slept.
Like I said: a chance to be normal without the expected normality.

I passed first the bakery my mother visited weekly to buy french bread and croissants for Sunday breakfast, then next door, the laundry mat used by my family when I was a toddler and they couldn't yet afford their own washer and dryer, or when we did have the pair, we'd sometimes visit the mat when one or the other would be temporarily broken.
They were vacant of technological light and spirit, and I stood in front; staring at their entrances.

A flood of childhood memories haunted me, and one by one, replayed a movie montage at its most sentimental element. It was raw and cruel, but also completely brought on by my own wandering mind that prompted me to sit down and take a breather.

I did so immediately on the steps leading up to the mat; placing my head in my hands. I began to run them down smoothly against my calloused face. I could make out the form of the biggest cut underneath my fingertips as it lived from the right corner of my mouth to the corner of my eye straight up ahead.

The scar tissue, I sometimes thought in my delusional days, was healing even more and less prominent from the last time I felt it.

Again, those were delusions.

There were other "minor" ones spread out from my forehead to my jaw, but the one I always paid the most attention to was the deepest one that was the last one I scratched in the heat of my rejection, intoxication and rage; a fatal power of three that gave my actions the most irrationality. Then every time I felt that specific scar, I remembered all the blood that poured from it.

So much that the bare sight made me woozy, and its loss caused a blackout.

Such hatred towards myself that felt very foreign now, and the only despise I carried along with me everywhere I went was the one towards the results of that hatred.
The regrets I had...they can't be described; they live deep in the recesses of my mind where no dark character can even imagine.
An eerie space that proved hell existed on earth; thriving.

Sitting on the stairs of sadness, alone and cloaked in ebony, there was the sounds of shattering glass and cheering coming from the farther down by the hardware store.
A series of thoughts assumed that my ears were hearing things made up by its own accord, then maybe it was really just some things made up by its own accord, then maybe it was really just some kids indulging in vandalism, and finally, maybe I should go check it out.

This would be considered the intro to a plot of another typical movie of the horror genre with the dumb bitch investigating the unknown instead of running away to safety.

I walked with a piano sound and retardando tempo towards the building where my father went when something would break in the house and he lacked the proper tools, owned by the same man ever since I was born.
His name was Mr. Turner, with an evergrowing face of hair and etched wrinkles at the corner of his eyes from squinting too much.

However, I don't think that he would appreciate a group of guys destroying a television in his alley with hammers they most-likely bought at his store. I had no idea if the TV was theirs, or if they found it or stole it. Then I shook my head at the perception of someone going through the trouble of theft just so they could experience an electronic massacre.
I was coming up around the corner of the building and the celebration was getting louder and louder.

"Eh, watch this,"

Suddenly a bottle came rocketing barely past my half hidden frame and into the middle of the road where it exploded like a firecracker. I gasped softly at the close call as I looked back at all its shattered remains, but turned my attention back to the angry boys.

There were about five; three standing around in a half circle while witnessing two of their own slaughter technology. They all wore black jackets, and I wondered if it was by coincidence or intentional.

The small outside light at the corner of the building nearest to them was a dull one with a few insects fluttering around, and that light extended all the way towards my left foot that stuck out in the open. It was odd that I didn't feel compelled to scatter away, for two of my worst fears were presented to me.

I actually stayed planted to the asphalt.

They had a certain air about them and their activity that made me never want to leave. The increasing chance of being found out as they bashed and gutted metal and glass was inconsequential; I didn't care only up to the point where I wasn't willing to pop out from my hiding spot, but not willing to go either.

"Oi, Tommeh, take a polaroid of meh 'itting the side,"

A strong voice native to the area commanded, while I'm assuming this Tommy fellow aboded by muttering "OK", and soon after, a loud bang erupted and a flash of light quickly came and went.
The flash of a camera.

Hands slapping other hands in high fives and bellows of approval sounded, and I blinked. I sort of wanted to be found out by the varying British boys and become acquainted with what they were doing; to watch more clearly the cheering and smiles and smashing.

"Polaroid? 'ow feckin' wasted are yeh Olleh?"

"Very wasted mate. I can barely 'old this 'ammer more."

The clank of it echoed and I could hear a liquid being passed around just by its mere swooshing against the presumably copper glass.
Alcohol.

This man Oli made a grunt in the back of his throat and then the bottle dropped from his fleeting grasp. He looked around with a glazed expression and back at his friends with a giggle.

"'ey, where's Tommeh boy? I miss 'im already,"

Then they all started looking around as a result, with the same clueless faces that were drowning in beer. I didn't like the sight of those bottles full of a life ruining beverage, and I was sure that once it hit, I would hate the smell of it even more.
Just realizing that they were all under a threatening influence said that it would take even longer to find this "Tom" guy, and also, maybe I wouldn't want to be around them after all.

Quickly, and the smartest decision I made all day, I lifted one foot in front of the other in a beginning motion with intent to walk away.
Click.
The tiny decibel tapped my ear drum, and I swiftly turned towards the direction it came from.

"Goddammit,"

It was the deep silhouette of a boy who wasn't either much younger or older that I, and in the darkness, I could only guess what his face looked like by the crest-fallen tone of his voice.
His eyes were the only elements lightly illuminated, other than the lens of his camera as he turned its front towards himself; inspecting it.

"Flash didn' go off. Wanted teh scare yeh."

I had no idea how Tom managed to get behind me to even pull such a trick, but while I stared wide eyed and disturbed, the only thing I was scared of was my face. I had gotten bullied numerous time before because of it, and on my personal retreat to self preservation, I didn't want it to end with a bang.
No pun intended.

My original plan was to get back home after I'd gained enough footage of the drunken night charades that had taken place in Sheffield, and I wanted to stick with it now that I remembered my scars and intoxication had a violent history.

While I tried casually walking away from the dreaded situation, away from the obnoxious boys who would use the hammers they carried as beating sticks, Tom suddenly ran back in the alley to the group.
Oh, and he took me with him.

He latched on to my wrist and dragged me away, ignoring my protests and utter pulls and pushes to get away, and it looked and felt as though I was on the way to being raped.

"Who the fuck would want to rape this ugly face?!"
I thought back to, and a sinking seeped in the pit of my stomach.

Everything was happening in slow motion, with each step, we were vastly arriving to the overhead light that would reveal and ruin me.
Tom played around and took hold of my arm and such, but when I would suddenly be shown entirely, he'd let go hastily and join his friends in naming off all the disgusting things about me. Or, if I was lucky at all, they would be the shy types with probably one or two assholes that would crack a joke before I disappeared forever out of their lives and back in my house.

Then...
There was always a small hope that I'd encounter the group of the nicest people who would be stunned by instinct in the beginning, but eventually grew to accept the new person I had become and one they could place at the same level.
I sometimes heard about these angels, but they seemed to only hold existence through people's tales and television. To meet one for real was what I always wanted, but failed to find.

And I seriously doubted that it would be in those drunk boys.

Their faces were priceless.
Two of their jaws dropped, one remained unfazed and calm, and the Oli character's open mouth slacked even more into an overly happy state where he was oblivious to everything and so drunk that he could cry alcohol.
Tom was in front of me the entire time, so was puzzled by the drastic change in atmosphere; as though Satan had just entered the alley.

"Guys, wha' are yeh starin-"

I knew I should have just run away sooner.
Nothing kills a pleasant get together or happy time when memories were in the making like my damaged face. One of them had stepped out of the half circle closer towards me, and there wasn't enough time to mentally prepare for the blow before he spoke.

"Alrigh',"
he slurred with brash.

"'alloween's ova...why are yeh still wearin' a...a mask?"

The other boy who was shocked once before cracked a shining grin and began to laugh hysterically. I took a step back; astonished as they grabbed each other's shoulders to support themselves and release their sporadic fits of giggles. It always hurt me so much when someone made fun of my flaws, and I even pathetically assumed that it would give me a calloused skin.

But I was wrong.
My heart ripped a little each time like someone slowly tearing a piece of paper. Oli, so trashed, joined them because he seemed to have no real concept of what was going on. I couldn't blame him, I guess.

Tom stared at me with a sick fascination to what he had brought along, and just as I expected, he let go of my hand to stand by his crew; leaving me in the middle, defenseless. The assholes continued laughing, and I knew it was the perfect time to leave, but I just couldn't. If I tried I was sure that they would come running after to beat me up or something, and I would be even worse off.
I would rather take the verbal hazing and leave with no more injuries; I already had enough.

The man who was silent turned around to walk back to the deceased television as he tossed the hammer from his left hand to his right; the metal head glistening under the light. His hair was a short, dull shag of brown that barely swept past the tips of his ears which were largely gaged.

Just like the wasted Oli, he had tattoos creeping up from his shirt collar and around his neck. The side of his face was in my view, and he looked rather distraught and tired from so much kinetic output towards hitting the cable portal.
He wiped beads of sweat off his forehead as I watched, and didn't seem to be aware of it, it helped me tune out all the insults and laughs more as I focused on this undistracted guy.

His mouth contorted into a tight frown and moved his arms up; brandishing the blunt tool and slamming it to his target, metal making a loud crack and dented.
We all stared at him in shock as his brows furrowed to the cruel men who wouldn't let my appearance go; so angry.

"Shut the fuck up Sheep. She can't 'elp that 'er face looks like that."

It was a voice I never expected him to have, so bumpy and Yorkshire and sprinkled in a high pitch that it caught me off guard, along with his original statement.
The guy with board straight light chestnut hair and piercing blue eyes smirked at the only good guy on my side. His ease didn't threaten his demeanor, however, and only made him glare harder.

"Yeh too Malia, stop being a fuckin' twat, or I'll give yeh a Colombian Necktie."

Colombian Necktie, I once heard about from who I can't remember, is when you slit someone's throat and pull their tongue through it. How such vulgar terminology ever graced my ears would remain an unsolved mystery, and I was just proud that I knew the content of the reference.

Impressed by its mention, I stared at the man with the hammer who tossed it around while taking short looks at everyone in the alley. Once his eyes landed on me, I immediately turned away to look down at the ground that was covered in all sorts of small, hazardous pieces of TV that could slice your bare foot with one single step.

I felt my tears coming, which gave me better reason to keep no contact with the nice guy. The humiliation from moments before was starting to effect me, and it would come hard.

"How'd yeh get 'em anyway?"
Tom asked from the edge of the group.

I almost forgot he was there and still failed to properly introduce himself, but I didn't expect such chivalry.

"I...I did it."

Coming out as a hushed, pained whisper, I continued to stare down so I could avoid the reactions. No one ever dared to ask me about the story behind the worthless exterior because they were too fearful to even approach me. A monster that should never be bothered because, surely, my personality coalesced.

This was honestly the first time I had ever gotten to this point with anyone after prom night, and I was winging it. I didn't fully know if it was a good idea to be truthful and say that I self mutilated myself to a point of no return, or if I should have lied.

Oh, I got mauled by a pitbull.
A tree with sharp branches fell on top of me.
God smitted me.

It was silent after I spoke, either because it was the first thing I said to them or they couldn't fathom my reply.

"'s alright...I-I abuse myself frough alcohol,"
Oli giggled madly and burped.

He lightened the mood the slightest bit, but the solving was still held high. The Malia guy stood to the next man to speak; the first one to speak in the beginning to insult me.
Sheep, I think.

"Wait...you did tha' teh yourself? No way, I refuse teh believe someone's that stupid. Yeh mus' be off yer walka."

"Eh man, liver alone, there's nothin' wrong wiff 'er anyway,"
Oli came closer to inspect, and I was certain I would scare him away.

Being so trashed that his mouth could serve as a beer tap if he got sick, however, had its perks. His vision would be a thunderstorm that would block all views of my mistakes. He was only five feet away and thought I was completely normal.

We could get to the point of fucking and he still wouldn't notice.

Uncomfortably, I dug my hands in my over sized jacket as a quick but weak barrier to barricade myself from any more contact or attention. The sewed on part; the actual pocket, had a strange, glossy paper flat up against it.
A faux liner that I knew didn't belong.
Then, on the left one, there was a sharp edge that I had run my middle finger against, resulting in a paper cut. I cringed in stinging pain and tried to take it out with caution.

Upon quick realization, I knew what it was, and hastily pushed it back down in its depths. I could hear the manicured crinkling, and so did the nice man, who gave a questioning look to my pocket and ignored Sheep as he criticized and called his name.
Matt Nicholls.

"Wha' was that in yer coat?"
He asked heatedly.

His frustration had been building all along with everyone bombarding and my unwanted participation. He was becoming hostile and I felt endangered. What was in both pockets wasn't something to cause conflict, and actually, were rather stupid. I feigned puzzlement so he would hopefully drop it.
He didn't.

"'s it a weapon? Yeh gonna 'urt me? Show meh what yeh got."

To resist any longer would be the worst mistake and I knew that saving my embarrassment wouldn't be worth it. No matter how much I hated it, I slowly took out the article from my right pocket and put it in his hand; immediately looking away so I would miss that same confusion, but more ridiculous.

"...This is you?"

Sadly, I nodded.
It made me self conscious to wonder how much differently I looked exactly if it came as a surprise. He stared back and forth between the two images; me and the picture, in a personal fascination; blinking almost every time he looked at me.
He was comparing and contrasting; a skill you learned in grade school put to use in a good decade and a half later.

The other boys were interested to see what all the fuss was about, and once Tom caught sight of it, his eyes widened. He was probably staring at the freckles speckled across my cheeks that were now torn away, or my bright eyes that were now dull with depression.
Possibly...
He was obsessed with the content of my smile, because it was now only relevant in the photograph. Beasts aren't supposed to grin unless misery is ahead.

"Yeh were pretteh,"
he stated in a hushed voice.

Were.
Past tense.
It hurt.

"What about the otha one?"

My other pocket, he must have meant.
The last time I decided to wander off on my own, I took two pictures with me: the old before shot, and the new me. I guess I just loved to torture myself with things I couldn't change, and the tears spent that night meant shit. Leaving them in the pockets because I was too distraught to do anything else would have eventually led me to the current moment, only I didn't foretell this future with men all around to join me.

Once I gave Matt the close-to-destroyed portrait, he took it delicately, and when he saw the differences right there on paper, his casual face downgraded to a morose frown.
I bet he hated me, or though I was disgusting for doing such damage to myself. He probably didn't even care to know what happened to cause me to do it, no one really cared.

His eyes scanned it gently from ear to ear.
Oli was staring at me leisurely as he held another bottle; I wondered where they were all coming from. There was either a cooler somewhere, or I could have sworn they were conjured in the sky. Tom and Lee had gotten to conversing about who knows what, and I could give a fuck about Sheep, although I saw him turn away from his friends and beat the TV some more.

Soon, it would be a metal pulp.

Matt, in a glimpse, placed my before picture in his leather jacket and took his hand out with a different object. He caught me looking at him with no emotion on my face, and held that object to the bottom left corner of my other, ugly photograph.
A lighter in his free hand.

There was no cigarette in his mouth, and it never occurred to me what his intentions were with that unfriendly child-proof device.
He didn't do anything just yet, and instead re-instated Tom's question.

"Why'd yeh do that teh yer face?"

Prom night of last year.
Perfect boy asks flawed girl to accompany him.
Flawed girl can't believe it but buys in anyway.
Flawed girl gets stood up by perfect boy with popular goddess.
The sobbing idiot gets drunk off her parent's wine and rips her face to chunks in a drunken fury, and so it ends.

His expression is indescribable as I reveal this in close terms to those choppy sentences, for I'm sharing my life with a stranger by blunt statements and it's all too much. A spilling of guts to a person that isn't a doctor and can't fix you.

You couldn't blame him, but the emotions had been building for quite some time and only had to undo one more button before I let loose. He nodded through my hysterics; still with that unnameable aura. It was confusion, shock, listening, trying to understand, and slightly frustrated.
Parading the lighter in his hand, he scoffed to my surprise with a cynical smile.

"Love, tha' 'appened so long ago. Let it go."

And in saying that, he flicked the switch and ignited the mechanical match, lighting the edge of the results of my past into engulfing flames that would eat away until there was nothing left. I witnessed in awe as his darkened face had a natural content.

It glowed brilliantly, even with the overhead light above, and it was just him and I in our own sphere of warmth and self-rebellion. the image corroded and furled towards his body, and the ashes that were left behind in its path dejectedly swam to the asphalt beneath us.

There wasn't a furious bone in my body towards his rude action, because that stunt might have just impacted me in the most bold and necessary way I needed.
It was uncalled for, yet desperately needed.
Not established properly, but buried away inside myself in a dirty manner for a long time coming.

I depicted this strange intersection in our lives as something threatening, while all along the only aspect that was endangered was my insecure shame. I stared at Matt a little longer until he dropped the remains of my photograph to the ground to finish burning.

My honest lens.
My objective mirror.
My personal Jesus.

He was all of these titles in that very moment, because even though he sympathized for my shitty dealt hand, he made it known that though I was the dealer, I needed to move on from the previously lost bet.
Scars were just that: they told of a troubled past, but were intended to make you feel stronger.

It had been official that the other boys had entertained themselves with their dead prey; long unconcerned with me. Matt bent down to his left by the unspottable brick wall of the hardware store to pick up what appeared to be a lead pipe in the blind atmosphere, and held it out towards me in an offering.

"Yeh wanna 'it the telly?"

As I was about to object, he added,
"It'll 'elp, trust meh. I know all about pain, an' this is the best Tylenol you'll find."

With that, I gathered up a watery smile and took the blunt object from his hand; our skin brushing softly. Our blushing could be easily spotted in the pitch black alley, and we walked towards the most important household item in modern residences; trashed.
It was like a metaphor to my very current way of living, and I beat the shit out of it with a loyal Apostle by my side.

Angels really do exist.