The Marks

The first mark appeared on a Tuesday. A bruise on her ribs, the shape of a hand. She didn't remember getting it. She didn't remember anyone touching her. She pressed it and it hurt, which meant it was real.

She showed it to her roommate, who said, "That's a handprint. That's someone's hand."

She said, "I know."

She didn't go to a doctor. She didn't tell anyone else. She watched the bruise change colour over the next week - purple to blue to green to yellow to nothing. By Sunday it was gone. She forgot about it.

The second mark appeared on a Thursday. A callus on her thumb, the shape of a tool. She didn't own the tool. She didn't know what the tool was. She pressed it and it was hard, which meant it was old.

She showed it to her coworker, who said, "That's from a clamp. A G-clamp. My dad had one."

She said, "I don't have a clamp."

Her coworker shrugged. "Maybe you borrowed one."

She didn't borrow one. She didn't know anyone who owned a clamp. She watched the callus for a week. It didn't fade. It stayed, a small hard patch on her thumb, as if she had been doing something she had never done.

The third mark appeared on a Monday. A scar on her palm, the shape of a key. She didn't remember cutting herself. She didn't remember holding a key that long. She pressed it and it was numb, which meant it was old.

She showed it to her mother on the phone. "Does this look familiar?"

Her mother said, "That's the key to the house we lived in when you were a baby. The one on Sycamore. You used to hold it so tight it left a mark."

She said, "I don't remember that house."

Her mother said, "You were two."

She looked at the scar. It was the shape of a key she had held before she could remember holding anything. The body had kept the record. The mind had let it go.

The fourth mark appeared on a Wednesday. A burn on her forearm, the shape of a stove. She didn't remember touching a stove. She didn't remember being burned. She pressed it and it was tender, which meant it was recent.

She didn't show it to anyone. She didn't tell anyone. She watched the burn heal over the next week. The skin peeled. The new skin was pink and smooth. The shape of the stove was gone.

But she knew it had been there. The body had recorded it. The body had healed it. The body had kept the record even after the record was gone.

The fifth mark appeared on a Friday. A cut on her shin, the shape of a curb. She didn't remember falling. She didn't remember sitting on a curb. She pressed it and it was sharp, which meant it was fresh.

She sat on the floor of her apartment and looked at the cut. She thought about the hand, the clamp, the key, the stove. She thought about the body that kept records she had not authorised. She thought about the body that remembered things she had never known.

She stood up. She walked to the bathroom. She looked at herself in the mirror. She looked at her skin, her palms, her thumbs, her ribs, her shins. She looked for marks she had not noticed. She found a shadow on her shoulder, the shape of a hand that was not hers. She found a line on her ankle, the shape of a sock that had been pulled too tight. She found a freckle on her wrist that she had never seen before.

She looked at her face. She looked at her eyes. She looked at the surface of herself, the archive of everything that had ever touched her, everything she had ever held, everything she had ever been burned by, everything she had ever fallen on.

She did not know whose life the marks belonged to. She did not know if the marks were hers or someone else's. She did not know if the body was keeping its own records or if it was keeping someone else's.

She pressed her palm to the mirror. The scar on her palm pressed back. The key was gone. The house was gone. The hand that had held the key was still here.

The surface held everything. The surface refused nothing. The surface was not a door. The surface was not a room. The surface was not a home.

The surface was a surface. It held what it was given. It gave nothing back.