Lines of pain, suffering, and battle crisscrossed from her left temple down to her cheek, a visual treasure map. These forever wounds against her fair skin etched themselves like red tattoos—inerasable and unforgettable.

Making matters worse, it was written on her face in plain sight. No need for a scavenger hunt—just one look at the mirror and her self-doubt stared back, as obvious as Pinocchio's elongated nose.

The plane crash made her camouflage seamlessly with the surroundings.

Nature was wild, unpredictable, and supernatural shit crossed the boundaries of the ordinary. The unhinged life they faced went far more bizzare that reality TV itself couldn't script.

The scars scribbled on her face were the tamest of them all.

Yet, reentering the cities morphed her existence into a freak. A deformed. An oddity.

"Come on, Van, show me the pretty face!" you would tease.

But, Van's hand refused to cooperate. Her fat tawny waves were stubborn curtains, masking the imperfections.

She wished you'd close the bedroom window so the air ceased to exist, except for the oxygen it provided—so the strands of hair would magically glue to her scars of inferiority, like unyielding stickers.

"Van?"

She shook her head, determined not to succumb to the pressure.

"Please?"

She can't, mustn't, even if your pleas tugged at her heartstring.

"For me?"

But goddamn it.

For you, the one who breathed life into her weary soul, like a wilted flower revived, she'd do anything.

And with those magic words, "There she is," a smile flickered across her face, even after enduring six hours of mind-numbing classes.

"You're just saying that," Van murmured, still reluctant to unveil herself.

"Those wolves fucked up my face," she continued. "Who would've knew they made up to be the worst facial surgeons ever?"

"I'm surprised you haven't demanded for a refund in my place."

She bit her tongue, swallowing the bitter taste of unwanted insecurity.

"Or looked for a girlfriend replacement."