In the small town of Santiago, there was once a girl named Melody. She was small and quiet and beautiful. Every day she would walk around town, wearing a loose shirt and tight jeans, her hair in a messy bun, a sketchpad tucked under her arm and a camera hanging on her shoulder, and the whole of Santiago would watch her pass by houses and stores and people, and greet them with her wonderful smile that never seemed to disappear even for just a second. It’s like watching the town be painted in all sorts of colors as little by little the town brightens up.

“She’s going up the hill again,” Mrs. Rodriguez sighed.

“Up in the old abandoned hut?” said Martha from next door, “She seems to have taken a liking to that place, haven’t she? Must be quite a nice place with beautiful scenery if she wants to draw and take pictures there.”

“Oh no, there’s nothing to see. My son had been there lots of times and he tells me there’s nothing to see but trees.”

Hundreds and hundreds of trees surrounding the whole town of Santiago, parting only at the other side of the town where Melody lived among the big houses. Santiago would refer to the people there as “penguins” because they hide in their air-conditioned mansions while the rest of the town suffer under the sticky air and painful rays of the sun. But not Melody, no. Santiago could see that she liked it down south, though they don’t know why.

In the old abandoned hut, however, sat Melody with her secret. She had taken off her shirt and half her bare chest was illuminated by the candle that sat beside her. In front of her was a broken mirror – the only thing left in the hut when it was abandoned – and she stared at it, stared at her half naked form and examined the figure carved at the skin by her heart. It was a circle and two half pointed oblongs and were still red with a little bit of blue which seemed to appear on any wound. Whenever she looked at it, she remembered the rage in her mother’s voice, the disappointment in her father’s eyes, and the disapproving look in her sister’s face. She cringed at the lightest touch.

“It’s a flower,” she explained when she saw Pete’s confused expression, “or at least, it’s going to be. And it will blossom wonderfully.”

She dug in her pocket and produced an oblong-shaped material that at first looked harmless, but as she fumbled on it appeared the sharp edges of a knife. Once again, she stared at herself in the mirror, her eyes now distant and cold.

“Today, I tried talking to them again. ‘No, you are not going to a damn art school!’ ‘Have you seen yourself lately? Your art won’t give you a job unless you work on your face!’ ‘Why can’t you be more like your sister?’” she said in various voices. With a sad smile, she placed the point right next to the petal and sighed, “Three petals.”

She stabbed at the skin lightly and carefully drew.

It wasn’t the first time Pete saw her cut herself. The first time had been a few weeks ago, when his mother asked him to deliver cake to the abandoned hut. When Pete got there, he saw a crying Melody – her shirt unbuttoned halfway down and blood oozing from the circle she drew on her smooth, brown skin. She looked up at him and immediately covered her exposed chest. It was the first time he’s seen her up close – her dark wavy hair flowing on her back, her flushed face partly illuminated from the candle and her dark, brown eyes full of wonder. He looked at the blood soaking up her shirt then at her.

“You… you’re bleeding,” He choked.

She turned away from him and tightened her grip on her shirt. Slowly, he walked towards her as he stared at her shoulders moving as she breathes. When he touched her, she jumped and fainted.

Pete averted his eyes and listened to her crying as she tore her skin inch by inch and blood oozed out of the open wound. She then laid down the floor and closed her eyes, breathing heavily as the blood continued to ooze out of her. Immediately he soaked a towel she brought with her on the tap and cleaned her wound. Slowly, her face shifted from pained to relieved.

“You know… you don’t have to do this,” he told her.

“It… feels… great. It’s like… they’ve gone with the pain.”

He cradled her and listened to her breathe, felt her breast on his chest and her breath on his arms. She looked lovely under the scarce lighting, her expression more peaceful that it had been before she cut herself. It wasn’t always this way, Pete thought. Sometimes, she’d be contented just eating his mother’s home baked goodies together, talking to him or taking pictures of him as he drew on her sketchpad at her request. If only there was something he could do to take away her scars, to permanently take away her pain without the need to hurt her.

A few inches away, Melody’s phone rang, signalling that it’s time for her to go home. He helped her put on her shirt and escorted her to the other side of the town, to the big metal gate that separated the town from Melody’s neighbourhood.

“Tomorrow,” she said.

“Tomorrow,” he promised.

He didn’t want to see her go. He didn’t want her to go in there, where all her problems are housed in luxury she didn’t want.
“I like it here,” she once said, sitting beside him, their backs on the weakening wall of the hut. “I like the quiet and peaceful environment. It feels like anything can happen, you know? Anything. Without limits.”

And still he wondered if that wasn’t enough to ease her of her worries.

“My mother gets angry whenever she sees me crying. She says it ruins her day.”

“I am doing my best. I keep my grades up, dress however they want me to, and behave. But it’s just not me.”

“I don’t think they hate what I do as much as they hate me.”
If that wasn’t enough to take away the pain she’s been keeping her whole life.

The next day, Pete sighed of relief when he saw her sitting in a corner and looking through pictures in her camera. Nothing happened, he thought.

She looked up. “Hey, what have you got there?”

He looked at the bag he was holding and smiled at her. As he fell asleep the night before, he kept thinking of ways to help her – to make her happy even just for a bit – and it struck him. He’s not sure if it will work, but he had to try. He walked towards her and asked, “Can I see it?”

She blinked, trying to comprehend what he meant. He looked at her breast - just where the flower should be - and she nodded, unbuttoning her shirt just enough for him to see what she’s done.

He touched it gently and she winced from the pain. It was beautiful, Pete thought. Right now, it doesn’t feel like he was looking at a scar. It felt like he was looking at a part of her, a part of her that the only two of them knew. It was like looking into her soul, looking into the real Melody.

“It’s like a puzzle piece, isn’t it?” She said as if reading his thoughts. “It feels like it’s supposed to be there, like it’s making me whole.”

“But it’s missing something,” he said.

“What?”

“Colors,” he took out bottles of paint from the bag, “It’s a part of you you couldn’t see… but I can.”

“What do you mean?” she said as she watched him carefully take lid after lid from the paint bottles.

“Every day, before we even met here, you would walk through town and smile at everyone,” he looked at her expectantly.
She looked down from embarrassment, not expecting him to take notice of her smile, “Well, that’s because the people here have been so good to me. They would greet me ‘Good Morning!’ and smile. And whenever she could, your mother would call me from her store and offer me a cake.”

“Yeah,” he smiled at the memory, “But that smile of yours, it fills the town with color. It makes the town alive.”

She closed her eyes. “The town makes me alive. Seeing those people’s smiles makes me have something to look forward to. I’ve seen the colors, Pete. Every day. That’s why I had to do this. I don’t want the pain I have inside me keep me away from the things that keep me alive. I want to feel all those beautiful things without something holding me back.”

He looked at her scar then into her eyes and kissed her, as gentle as he could, as if she might break if he’s not careful. “It won’t.” He kissed her again. “Trust me, it won’t.”

They spent the day painting her scar, talking and kissing as they worked. Every stroke of the brush, every drop of color filled the once empty spaces with life.

That night, as she sat in her room staring at her scar, she remembered the smiles of the people in town, the feel of Pete’s lips on hers, and the serene comfort of the old abandoned hut. “It’s like a painting,” she said. She got to bed, her smile never leaving her lips.