Free Burying Water by K. A. Tucker

basic toiletries and some nice creams that I keep finding on my nightstand when I wake in the morning, little gifts from the nursing staff that I both appreciate and despise. Appreciate because their kindness for the lonely, deprived Jane Doe has ensured that I’m never without; despise because I’m at everyone’s mercy. I can’t take care of myself.
    “I’ll be out here. Holler if you need me,” Amber says, shutting the door behind me.
    I smile. Knowing that there are people like Dr. Alwood and Amber in the world to balance out the malicious monster who put me here is comforting. Even the sheriff is nice. Quiet, but nice. The only one in that family I can’t speak for is Amber’s brother. I haven’t seen him since that day he barged into my room.
    I let the shower warm as I undress, avoiding the mirror. Even under the dull fluorescent lighting, it reveals too much. My eyes immediately search out the round tribal tattoo on my pelvis. My fingertip traces the wavy lines. The moment I first saw it, I knew that it stood for “water,” though I don’t remember getting it and I certainly don’t remember why.
    All I know is that it’s the only visible tie to my past.
    Dr. Weimer said that, following the general “rules” of my condition, I shouldn’t remember what it means. She said that something like that would be a part of my episodic memory. I don’t speak in tribal symbols, after all.
    I have no answer for that, except that I know what it means.
    But I don’t know what it means.
    My palm rests against my abdomen, as it does every day, taking a few minutes to imagine what the tattoo would have looked like with a swollen belly, had I not miscarried. A hollow ache fills my chest. It is becoming more obvious, as the rest of my body heals, that the loss of my baby isn’t merely one of many injuries earned with the attack. I may not remember its conception but somehow, it still exists in my heart.
    The X-rays of my pelvis confirm that I’ve never given birth before, so there is no motherless child standing by a doorway in tears, wondering why mommy hasn’t come home yet. That’s good news, at least.
    Still, the existence of an unborn child means the existence of a man who I’ve shared at least one night with. Perhaps many nights. A man who doesn’t seem to be looking for me now.
    No one seems to be looking for me.
    In the shower, the warm, soothing water takes some of the edge off, as it does every day. Unfortunately, when it comes time to brush my teeth and comb my wet hair, that edge reemerges with a vengeance. It’s impossible to avoid my reflection. It’s not completely monstrous anymore. My skin is no longer Technicolor and my nose has healed to a narrow and small centerpiece that Dr. Alwood says turned out better than she expected. But, besides the patch of short hair where my head was shaved for stitches and the drainage tubes, the missing teeth that I hide by not smiling, and the swollen purple spot on my lip that I’m told will fade, there’s nothing to distract my attention from the unsightly line running down the length of my face. It’s still red, though not as bright and puffy as when I first saw it. Dr. Alwood keeps reminding me how lucky I am that a renowned plastic surgeon was here to help; how lucky I am that my attacker didn’t slash diagonally, cutting into an eye or across my nose. She says that within a year, some concealer and foundation will make it almost vanish.
    Almost.
    And yet I will see it every time I look in a mirror, from now until my last day, whether it is through the eyes of who I once was or who I have since become. Or, more likely, a jaded combination, because that original girl will never truly return.
    When I’m dressed again, I emerge from the bathroom. Amber is gone.
    “When was the last time you went outside?” Ginny asks, her tone not as harsh as it was earlier. The drugs must have kicked in.
    “Amber took me out last week, but it was too cold to stay