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Message-ID: <29874asstr$987347404@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Delta <Delta@nym.alias.net>
Subject: {ASSM} "Scars" by Delta  (MF)
Date: Sun, 15 Apr 2001 11:10:04 -0400
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RE

If you wish to comment upon my story, I can be reached by
E-mail at: 

delta @ nym . alias . net

Comments and criticisms are welcome.

Standard disclaimers:  This is a work of fiction - no character 
within is a depiction of any real person, living or dead.  No 
place or event described within exists outside of the writer's 
imagination.  Copyright retained by the author and this post
is for private use of the reader only.  It is not to be published,
posted or reposted, in any form whatsoever, including being made 
available on BBSs, without the express prior consent of author.
  
     Any readers who are underage in the jurisdiction in which
they reside are asked to please pass by.  If you received this
story by e-mail, it wasn't sent by me.

                          SCARS
                     by Delta (c) 2001


     Rain can be a joy, Ellen thought as she held the umbrella
just a little lower.  It did little good for, in the wind, the 
rain was coming down almost horizontally.  If she wasn't
careful, her umbrella would be carried away.  Yes, rain can be
a joy:  It can wash the air clean; encourage plants to grow;
cool an overly hot day.  On the other hand, the cold, monotonous 
winter rain on the coast did none of the above.  And on days
like this one, when the wind was fiercely blowing, joy wasn't
exactly what it brought.  One of the few good things that could 
be said about it was that it wasn't snow.  Now, after twenty 
straight days of grey skies, twenty days of wet, cold weather, 
snow began to look pretty good.  After twenty days a change--any
change--would be nice.  She wondered if this winter would ever
end.
     The bus shelter was just ahead and she breathed a sigh
of relief.  The sigh turned into a gasp of alarm as a figure
darted out from under the bench and streaked past her and out 
into the rain.  Ten metres away the cat stopped, turned and eyed 
her balefully.  She laughed in nervous relief.
     Poor cat, Ellen thought.  Homeless, trying to find some
small shelter from the elements and along comes some great 
lumbering human to chase it out into the wet.
     "Here, kitty, kitty," she called to it.  The cat looked
at her a moment, then turned away, perhaps to seek out some new
shelter, perhaps to wait for her to go so it could reclaim its
spot.
     As it turned to leave Ellen noticed that half of one its 
ears was torn away and that there was a patch of fur gone from 
above its left eye.
     The unlovely cat disappeared around the corner.
     Ellen dug through her shopping bag until she found the 
small package from the deli.  She hurriedly opened it and 
deposited a small amount of sliced chicken on the cement under
the bench before stepping out to catch her bus.
     "A wicked night out," the bus driver commented as she 
climbed the steps, shaking out her umbrella.  
     Ellen looked up and smiled, just in time to catch the 
frozen moment which trapped his face before he could suppress
the reaction.  "Wicked, indeed," she replied, dropping the 
requisite coins into the fare box.
     He was new on the route, had to be.  The regulars all
had better control than that, were used to it.  She sat down
in the almost empty bus and stared out the window as they
moved away from the stop.  There was no cat to be seen.
     No, there was no cat to be seen but, reflected in the
glass, she could see herself.  Scars can be interesting, they
said.  Can lend a face character, give it a piratical look,
do various things, most good--on men.  On a woman . . .
     It wasn't that the scar had marred her beauty.  No one
had ever called her beautiful.  The scar, however, was ugly.
A vivid gash from the outer corner of her right eye down to
the centre of her cheek, then angled back towards the corner
of her jaw.  She thought of the cat with its torn ear and
ugly face and empathized.  Who would want a cat like that?
     The bus came to a halt at her stop and she braced herself
for the onslaught of wind and rain.  "Thank-you," she called
to the driver as she stepped out; what little of his perfunctory 
"You're welcome," that was not lost in the hiss of the closing 
door was shredded by the wind.
     "Ah, at last," Ellen sighed out loud as she closed the
door behind her and relaxed into the warmth of her living room.
She was dead beat and the thought of starting her evening 
routine, now three hours behind schedule, was more than she
could bear.  She merely hung her coat up in the well ordered
closet and headed for the bath.  A bath and then bed.  That was
about all she could manage.
     As the bath water roared, steam rose and clouded the mirror,
but not before she had another good look at herself.  At first
she had hated the scar; hated how it made her look; hated how
it repelled people.  Now she simply accepted it.  It was, and
there was nothing she could do about it.  Mostly she didn't 
even think of it--except when she got *that reaction* from
strangers.  Today, the cat, with its torn ear and damaged
face, reminded her.
     Her bra and panties joined the blouse and skirt which were
already hanging on the hook on the door.  A final quick glance
into the nearly clouded mirror showed her her breasts.  They were
neither large nor small, but they were nice breasts.  They *were*,
she stressed, trying to convince herself of the obvious.  Too bad
she had no one to share them with, no one who would appreciate 
them and pay attention to them--and her--as was deserved.
     She shrugged at her foggy reflection, turned and stepped
into the tub.
     "Ahh," she sighed as she slipped beneath the bubbles which
the roaring downpour had churned into a thick carpet covering
the water.  She pulled the shower curtain closed to hold in the
warmth and cut the light.  This done she allowed herself to sink
into the welcoming water.
     Slowly the tension drained from her body.  It felt so
peaceful, lying outstretched in the oversized tub, almost
floating.  
     The water level rose until she was satisfied, then she
turned off the taps with her feet, not bothering to rise up
into a sitting position.  Quiet filled the room.  Then she
heard it.  The sound of the wind-driven rain against her 
bathroom window.
     It was a sound of nature and it helped her to further relax,
in spite of its fury.  She'd always loved the sound of the rain,
and as the rain beat against the window her hand came up, almost
of its own volition, and began stroking her breast.  It circled
about, wide then narrow, fingers tracing a dreamy pattern on the
sensitive flesh.  Every once in a while they'd glide over the
hardened nipple, sending a flash of joy through her body.
     The other hand joined the first and, through the bliss of
sound and feeling, Ellen's thoughts faded until she was just a
part of the moment--just being.
     How long she lay there in this state of bliss she didn't know.
Perhaps it was a change in the intensity of the rain, perhaps it
was the far-off sound of thunder (or traffic?), perhaps it was . . .
but it didn't matter.  Something brought her attention back to
the rain and thinking of the rain reminded her of the cat, and
in the way that those things go, the cat's face reminded her of
her own and of the scar.  Then that, and the feeling engendered by 
the stroking of her breasts, reminded her of things she'd rather
not be reminded of.
     Tommy.  The last man she'd had sex with.  A one night stand.
They'd met in a bar, struck up conversation, found they had much
in common and ended up back at her place.  He'd been good, very
good and as she showered the next morning she allowed herself 
to wonder if perhaps there was a chance for more, even dreamed
of a life . . . . Mistake.  The shower had removed the make-up
she'd used to cover the scar.  His face had fallen when he saw
it.  He acted as if she'd tricked him somehow, betrayed him.
It was the last time she'd ever used make-up.  Now she presented
herself 'as is', take it or leave it.  They left it.
     "Damn," she said softly.  The unbidden memories had spoiled 
the moment.  Her fingers no longer inspired her towards the 
heights.  Sighing, she began the more mundane job of washing her
body to get it clean, not to excite.
     Sleep was long in coming, and her last waking thought was
of the cat's baleful look as she took possession of its shelter.

     The sun had gone down but there was still the feeling of
spring in the air.  Ellen walked down the street, enjoying the
cool evening, wondering if she'd see her friend.  
     It had taken quite a while but, between leaving treats
below the shelter's bench and being very circumspect, she'd 
finally gained the conditional trust of the cat.  Now he
occasionally allowed her to pet him.  He was an older cat, 
obvious veteran of many fights, and was distrustful of the
human species.  They'd probably given him a lot of grief 
during his life.
     Thus it was that Ellen felt honoured by his intimacy, such
as it was, and thrilled whenever he purred in her company.  She
grinned to herself, she was doing better with him than with any
other male in recent years.
     "Hi, Furry One," she greeted the cat, who had seemingly 
appeared from nowhere.  "How's the cat?"
     The cat was, apparently, happy to see her, for he brushed
against her leg and allowed her to pet him.  Perhaps he was just
warming her up for the demand for food, but she didn't think so.
She had, she realized, become a part of the cat's routine.  One
of the stops on his rounds.  Of where ever else he went, whatever
else he did, she was unaware.  Yet he seemed in good shape and,
though a little thin, far from starving.
     At that moment she became aware of someone approaching.
This was not a good part of town to be in--though it was where
she worked--and certainly to allow herself to be found crouched
down and unawares was not in the cards.  She stood up and looked
in the direction of the footsteps.  As she stood, the cat departed,
disappearing as silently as he'd arrived.
     The intruder was a man and Ellen resented him for the 
disruption he'd caused.  She was also a little worried, for his
dress proclaimed him to be of the class of poor and unemployed,
perhaps criminal.  Again she was made aware of how run down this
section of the city was.  
    The man in question stopped at the corner garbage receptacle
and rummaged in it briefly.  He pulled out a soft drink can or
two and placed them in the bag he carried.  Finished with his
labours, he approached.
    Here it comes, Ellen thought, the plea for spare change.
And what would happen should she deny him?  She took a quick look
around.  There was no one else on the street.  What would happen
if she were to open her purse there in front of him?  Would he be
content with the change she offered or would he grab the whole
thing and run?  Would he hurt her in the process?  
     She was standing directly across the street from a light
pole, but the illumination wouldn't help her any, she knew.  Not
here and not now.  She held her breath, he was almost upon her.
     "Good evening, Miss," he greeted her, looking her full in
the face and smiling.  "It's a lovely evening out, isn't it?"
     Ellen managed to nod without betraying her apprehension.
     "Sorry," he apologized, "I guess I interrupted your visit."
     "Visit?" she queried.
     "The cat," he explained, still smiling.  "You must really
have something about you.  He usually fights shy of people."
The man looked around, ostensibly looking for the cat, but 
probably getting ready to make his pitch for coin.
     "Well, no doubt he's found something interesting to 
occupy him, but if I leave now, he may be back before your
bus arrives.  Have a good evening."  
     The stranger tipped his battered hat to her, then walked on.  
She followed his form until he stopped a block away on the far 
side of the street to rummage through another garbage receptacle.  
Only then did she relax, realizing that she had been clutching
her purse tightly.
     "Meow!"
     "Furry One!" she exclaimed in delight.  "You're back.  No,
I didn't forget about you."  From her pocket she pulled a small
folded piece of waxed paper.  She unwrapped the treat she'd 
brought and held it out to the cat who checked it carefully 
before deigning to accept it.  Then he was gone, for the bus
was pulling up.  She climbed on board to the carefully neutral
face of the driver, deposited her coins and sat down.

     There had been no sign of the cat for four days, and
Ellen was worried.  The food she had left each night had not been
touched.  Either the cat had found a better handout, or he was
in trouble--trouble probably meaning too sick to walk, or dead.
Either way, she had probably seen the last of him.  Street cats
didn't tend to live nearly so long as their house owning
compatriots.
     Ellen felt the loss keenly.  'Furry One' had become as
much of a friend as any person she'd known since . . . well,
since.  He was always happy to see her and didn't care that
she wasn't quite as pretty as other humans, nor that she was
marred.  How could he, what with that face of his? 
     Her laugh at the thought came out as a sob and she was
horrified.  Surely she wasn't going to burst into tears because
some dumb cat hadn't shown up for a few days.  Surely she'd
gotten past that sort of reaction to rejection, no matter what
the source or cause.
    The tears, unbidden, started to roll down her cheeks and
she felt a terrible constriction in her throat.  "Oh, Furry One,"
she whispered.
    The sound of footsteps returned her to the here-now.  She
passed a hand across her face, wiping away the tears, which could 
only be seen as some sign of weakness.  Here, on the streets, it
paid to be strong, hard.
    "Good evening, Miss."
    The voice was familiar.  The garbage can hunter.  Only he
wasn't smiling this night.  His eyes looked troubled and his
unshaven face added to the sense of menace.
     "Good evening."  This time, at least, she could speak.  Her
voice was cold, as was her face.  No need to give him any sort 
of opening to exploit.
     "I hate to ask, Miss, but I need sixty dollars to . . ."
     "Sixty dollars?"  She couldn't believe what she was hearing.
     "I'll pay you back as soon as . . ."
     "Find someone else to finance your habit."  The nerve of
the man.  Sixty dollars!  
     The man reacted as if he'd been slapped.  Then, quickly, all
emotion left his face.  "Of course.  Sorry to have bothered
you."
     Ellen watched his receding back.  How on earth could he 
have imagined that she would give him sixty dollars?  In her
indignation she forgot about the cat until she was seated in the
bus.  
     Three blocks shy of her regular stop, she exited the bus and
entered the bank to pay her end-of-month bills before they started
collecting interest.  The teller looked with carefully disguised
pity at her face.  It wasn't carefully disguised enough and Ellen
felt the coldness which came over her at times like these.
     She accepted her receipts in silence, turned and left.

     Though the sun was setting, the air was warm and refreshing.
A beautiful spring day, unseasonably warm.  
     At the bus stop, the bit of paper with her latest offering
sat untouched.  It was difficult to give up, but Ellen knew that
she would never see Furry One again.  Another person--for he was
a person, had a distinct personality--gone from her life.  She
looked around.  One last time.  
     This day she had brought nothing.  Another sign that she
had given up.  She closed her eyes for a moment.
     "Got any spare change, Miss?"
     She jumped.  How had she let someone get that close without
her knowing?  He was old, grey-bearded and wrinkled, steadying
himself with a cane.  Not a threat.
     For some unknown reason she nodded and reached in her 
pocket.  This was something she just didn't do.
     "Thanks, Miss."  The old man hesitated.  "You won't find
him here."
     "Find who?"  
     "The cat.  Watched you, time to time.  Cat liked you.
Could tell."  He gave an old man's laugh.  "People cats like,
you can trust 'em . . . mostly."
     He had Ellen's full attention.
     "You know what happened?"
     "Accident.  Hit by a car."
     Ellen felt her throat tightening.  "Dead?" she managed
to get out.
     "Nah."  Relief.  "Jimmy took him to the vet."  The old
man's eyes took on a far-away look.
     "And?"  She was impatient.
     "Huh?  Oh, yeah.  Yeah, Jimmy took him to the vet.  But
vets cost.  Cost plenty.  Jimmy ain't around no more."
     Frustration warred with patience.  "The cat?" Ellen asked
gently.
     "At the vet's, I told you.  Expensive."  The old man sounded
exasperated with her.  She felt the same way about him.  "Jimmy
used his rent money.  Had to move out.  Too bad.  I liked Jimmy."
     "What does Jimmy look like?" Ellen asked very slowly.
     The description matched the man who had asked her for the
sixty dollars.  Her insides knotted.
     "Do you know which vet?"
     "Nah."  He looked at her closely.  "Thought maybe you 
might like to know about Jimmy.  Guess not.  Cats ain't always
right."  He turned and walked away.  "They gave away his room,"
the old man muttered to no one in particular as he limped down
the street.
     The bus pulled up and Ellen climbed onboard.  It was only
when it took her two attempts to drop the fee in the box that 
she realized her hands were shaking badly.

     "Dr. Hobbes' Veterinary," the receptionist answered.
     It was the sixth phone-call she had made.  Quickly she 
gave the date and described 'Furry One'.
     "Oh, yes, I remember him well."
     "I'll be right down."  Ellen hung up before the 
receptionist had a chance to say anything further.
 
     "Was Furry One stolen?  The man who brought him in didn't
seem like the type to put the grab on a cat."  The receptionist
eyed the file with a little dismay.
     "No, no.  Furry One isn't mine.  I don't think he belongs
to anyone.  I just feed him . . . when he lets me."
     "Oh."  There was relief in that single word.
     "Tell me, is there anything still owing on his bill?"
     "Yes, about seventy-five dollars.  Mr. Browling brings
in a few dollars every day.  Dr. Hobbes was kind enough to
give him credit.  She doesn't do that for many people.  We've
been stiffed too many times."
     "Did Mr.  . . . Browling leave an address."
     "No."  She hesitated.  "I don't think he has one.  But
I heard him talking about the park."
     "Thanks."  Ellen took out her chequebook and wrote a 
cheque for the balance of Furry One's bill, then headed for
the nearest park.
     Jimmy Browling sat under a tree carving a little figure
from a stick of wood.  Nearby sat Furry One, his left rear
leg in a cast.  There were two bowls nearby.  One held water,
the other dry cat-food.  Behind the tree was a large cardboard
box.  Ellen shuddered at the idea of living out of a box
in the park.
     Furry One saw her and hobbled towards her mewing 
piteously.  That brought Browling's head up.  He looked at
her, expressionless.
     "I'm sorry," she said.  "I thought . . ."
     "Yes.  You made it very clear what you thought."
     That silenced her.  She squatted and pet the
cat who began purring.  "I paid the rest of the bill."
     "You've come to take the cat?"
     Ellen winced at the bitterness.  "I can give him a home.
Make sure the bandages get changed, stay dry."
     "We've done okay."
     Ellen looked pointedly at the box and raised her eyebrows.
"Look, Jimmy . . ."
     "James."  His gaze was steady, his eyes cold.  She gave in.
     "Okay, James.  If you'd just look at . . ."  Her voice
faded.  He had been looking at her since she'd arrived.  He'd
looked at her the other times he'd met her, too.  He had seen
and it hadn't mattered.  Why had she not seen that?
     "Look at what?  Look at the fact that when the cat needed
me I was there?  No one else cared."
     Ellen had risen to her feet and James did likewise.  Furry
One looked up, from one to the other then, sensing that their
attention was elsewhere, decided to get a bite to eat.
     "Yes, I can see that.  And what do you see?"  She looked
into his eyes, unflinching, steady.  She could see he was
confused.
     "I see," he began, then his voice faded.  His shoulders
dropped and she could read the defeat in his face.  "I guess
you are right."  His voice was filled with the bitterness of
countless defeats and Ellen's stomach jumped.  
     Browling turned and went to his box.  He pulled out a
small box of cat-food and handed it to her without looking her
in the face.  The he bent over and gently picked up the cat, 
who gave a small meow of protest.  He placed Furry One in
Ellen's arm.  "Sorry, Cat.  Better for you."
     He turned away.
     There was nothing to do but leave.  Ellen turned and
started walking, knowing that he was watching from the corner
of his eye.  Grieving, perhaps.  The cat looked up at her
with his ugly face.  His one good ear was crooked forward and
he reached up and gave her nose a quick lick.  She smiled.
She had her Furry One.  She had a companion, a friend who
didn't care about her face.
     She stopped.
     Browling was sitting with his back against a tree, 
enjoying the afternoon sun when a shadow fell across his
face.  He opened his eyes.  His mouth turned down.
     "What do you want now?"
     "I was wrong about you," Ellen told him.  "I apologize."
     "Yes, you were.  Now, what do you want."
     "Come with us."  What was she saying?  She couldn't
really mean it, could she.  She knew nothing about him--except
that the cat accepted him.  Did that count for anything?  To 
her surprise, she found that it did.
     Browling continued to sit, not moving.
     "Mr. Browling, I've apologized.  What else must I do?"
She waited.  He said nothing.  "At least you'll get a bath and
your clothes washed."
     It took a long minute, then Browling nodded, more to 
himself than to her, and moved to his box to retrieve his
belongings.  Could a man really have so little, she wondered.
The entirety of his life was packed up in a small gym bag.

     The taxi dropped them off in front of her house and Ellen
led the way to the front door.  Browling hesitated there for
a moment, then shrugged and followed her inside.  Furry One
looked around warily, but the humans didn't seem too worried,
so he didn't make a dash for freedom as the door closed.
     It was a good decision, for the female carefully placed
him on the floor then set a small dish with liver chunks before
him.  The liver was very good.  Finishing it, he turned about 
to explore.
     "Cats seem to always land on their feet, don't they,"
Ellen laughed.  Her laugh died and she turned to face Browling.
"I ask again, what do you see?"
     Browling looked at her for a long time.  "I don't understand
the question."
     Was he being deliberately obtuse?  She slowly brought her
finger up and carefully traced the scar from start to finish,
her eyes never leaving him.
    Browling almost laughed but didn't, which was fortunate.  
She didn't think she could have stood that.  "Oh, that," he
said as he relaxed, dismissing it.  "Lady, we all have our 
scars."
     "Oh?  And where are yours?"
     There was a bitter smile.  "Some can't be seen."  The pain
in his voice had her throat constricting again.  He changed the 
subject.  "You promised a bath."
     "So I did."  She led him to the bathroom and turned on
the faucets.  She brought out soap, shampoo and bubblebath
from under the vanity.  "I'll put your clothes in the machine," 
she told him and waited outside the door until he passed them 
through.
     On her way back from the laundry room she paused before
the bathroom door.  The faucets had stopped their roar.  The
toilet flushed, but there was no sound of anyone slipping into
the bath.  No splashing of any kind.  She waited long minutes.
     When she opened the door, he was just standing there, his
back to her, looking at the tub.  She closed the door behind
her and began to disrobe.  Why, she didn't know, she just knew
it was the right thing to do, here, now.
     There were tears rolling down his face as she stepped 
into the hot water, his hand in hers.  She increased pressure
and he allowed himself to be led into the tub; obeyed the 
pressure on his shoulders and sat down carefully.  She sat down
behind him, surrounding him with her legs and arms.  She held
him for a long time, until finally he bent forward and she 
released him.  
     With his hair wet, she applied shampoo and then scrubbed
his back.  Too soon they were done and he stood up.  She
stood with him as the water gurgled down the pipes.
     "Thank heavens," she murmured as he handed him a towel,
taking a second one for herself.
     "For what?"
     "For the absence."
     "Absence?"
     "You smell great . . . now."
     A small smile came to his face.  It broadened and then
they were both laughing, laughing so hard they held on to 
each other to keep from falling.  Then they were holding each
other close.  Ellen turned her face up and he kissed her.
Softly, oh so softly, tasting the corners of her mouth, her
cheek, her lips.
     "Come with me."  She led him to the bedroom.  He stopped
for a moment to look around at the tidy cleanness of it.  Then
he was with her on the bed, holding her, teasing her, touching
her until her breath was coming in gasps.
     "Mr. Browling . . ."
     "James."
     "Oh, God!"
     "No.  James."
     Then she was laughing again, even as she pulled him
between her legs.
     There is a moment, when a man is in position, just before
he moves forward, when a woman realizes that there is nothing
she can do to stop it.  Even if she changed her mind in that
split second, it would be too late.  She is open, vulnerable
and helpless to prevent it.  Ellen's heels drove into his
buttocks, her arms circled his chest and she lunged against
him.  Works the other way, too.
     In both of them there was the desperation of the moment 
and they went at each other like people possessed.  Then they
slowed and began a gentle lovemaking.  
     "It's been so long."  There were tears in her eyes.  She
looked up to find the same in his.
     "Much too long," he agreed and continued the soft rocking
motion.  James raised himself up on his arms and looked down at
the woman under him.
     "You have beautiful breasts," he told her, then bent down
to kiss each in turn.
     "I know," she grinned.
     "Oh you do, do you?"  He pushed into her a little harder,
bringing forth a gasp.  "What else do you know?"
     She began a turn, which he aided in, leaving her on top.
She brought her knees up and then sat up on him.  "Just giving
you a better look."  He reached up and cupped them as she began
riding him.  She moved faster and faster and he began to tense
under her.  "I. know. that. you. are. about. to. COME!"  Her 
cry mingled with his.  He thrust up into her hard and fast,
then she collapsed on him.
     It took some time before she had the energy to roll off
and lie on her back beside him, pulling the sheet up over them.
     "That was good."
     "Very good," he agreed.
     "There's more.  But only if . . ."
     "Only if?"
     "Only if you stay."  She turned her head to look at him.
     His eyes were sober.  "You can count on it."
     They felt a tugging, then the cat was on the bed.  He
limped up between their legs and looked at each of them in turn,
his good ear forward.  Satisfied, he curled up in a ball, purring 
loudly.
     "I think we just got the seal of approval," James grinned.
     "I think you're right."

End of Scars, By Delta   
delta @ nym . alias . net

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