Disfigurement

GoodTimesWithScar

Scar can smell rust. Already he knows what that means. After all, he has been working here for a long time. The tools in the bags at the back of his wheelchair click against each other. He hates that sound. It follows him everywhere.

Scar can smell rust. Just up the hill of cried up grass it is: The Carnival of Rust. An amusement park. He knows that in his past life he loved amusement parks. He dreamed of working at one of them. In his past life that is. He hates that dream. For it would be his demise.

Scar can smell rust. The few street lights that aren’t broken annoy him so much. He is used to the darkness of the chamber for workers. No light there. He rubs his arm. The scars are all still there. Why wouldn’t they be? He died. He hates that feeling. It was always there.

Scar can smell rust. As he wrote down ‘Scar’ that is. Underneath Scar. And Scar. He works here alone. The only things around him are rusting carousels and shops. That smell hung everywhere and stuck to him. He hates that smell. It reminded him.

Scar can smell rust. The doll-like puppet at the front entrance needs work. Its hollow black eyes stare at him - he never figured why - and the red painting is peeling off. He reaches down to the box containing the cables. He hates that motion. Its motion repeats every day. His body aches.

Scar can smell rust. And iron. His wound had started leaking again. He raises the hem of his shirt just enough. The gaping wound that ended his life. The iron smell. He hates it. It ended everything.

Scar can smell smoke. A feeling of happiness fills him. His best friend always smelled like that. The cigarettes his friend smoked and he himself hates. But never once did he confront him about it. He hates that thought now. It clings onto him now.

Scar can smell smoke. It overwhelms him. The screwdriver in his hand falls down. Shocked, he turns to look at the front gate. The doll-like puppet is still there. And only it. Sheepishly he rubs his neck. He is rooted in place. He hates that feeling. It stops him every time.

Scar can smell smoke. When he comes here. Surrounded only by the doll-like puppet. His friend died in the park. In the incident. A mistake on his part. The guilt haunts him.

Scar can smell smoke. Suddenly it stops. The front gate is still closed. Nobody’s there. Why did he think so in the first place? He was a good person. Unlike himself. He hates that thought. It fills him with envy.

Scar can smell rust. Forcefully he picks up his screwdriver again. Today he decides to leave earlier. It wasn’t like anyone cared. Nobody ever cared. Not now. Never again. And certainly not in his past life. He was a kid with a dream. A dream that killed him. Him and the other people in the park.

73 years ago Scar could smell rust. Could hear the creaking of the rollercoaster. The whining sound of the carousel. He was a worker hidden behind the scenes. Nobody wants to see someone like him.

73 years ago Scar could smell smoke. Could see the flames licking up the side of the buildings. Engulfing the people inside. He was a worker hidden behind the scenes. Nobody cared to bother saving him.

73 ago Scar died in the great fire of the Jellieland Amusement Park. A victim amongst the many. A name not even worth a footnote in the newspaper.

Scar can smell rust. A ghost never forgets. Never forgives either. The red paint dripping from the entrance tells as much.

Scarland was his happy place now. His and only his.