The Birthmark on Her Right Face

On my right cheek, stretching from the corner of my eye down to my jaw, crawled a dark red birthmark. Like spilled ink, or like congealed blood. Since I can remember, the words "ugly freak" have been nailed to me. In kindergarten, kids shoved me around, snatched my candy, called me a monster. In elementary school, dead mice and toads kept appearing in my desk. On the day I graduated from middle school, a few girls trapped me in the bathroom and chopped off my long hair with scissors. "An ugly freak like you doesn't need to keep her hair." Cold scissors sliced through my scalp. I hugged my head and crouched on the ground, too scared to cry out loud. My parents have been away doing business for years, and on the phone, it's always just, "Is the money enough?" They don't know most of the pocket money I saved went to buying face masks and hats. I got used to walking with my head down, avoiding everyone's gaze. Loneliness is my armor and my prison. The summer I turned eighteen was unbearably hot. I had just finished my part-time shift at the convenience store and was taking a shortcut through a narrow alley. The alley was pitch dark, only a faint glow from distant street lamps bleeding in. Suddenly, three thugs with yellow-dyed hair lunged out from the shadows. They blocked my path, their faces twisted into nasty grins. "Hey, isn't this the ugly freak?" "Looks so scary." I was shaking all over with fear, turning to run, but one of them grabbed my arm. His grip was like iron claws, crushing my arm until it hurt like hell. "Where you running? Come hang out with us." Another thug reached out to yank off my face mask, but I clutched my face tight and struggled desperately. "Let go of me! Help!" My screams for help were swallowed up by the alley, met only with the thugs' mocking laughter. They shoved me against the wall, rough hands roaming all over me. Despair crashed over me like a tidal wave—I thought I was done for right there. Then, a figure suddenly burst in. "Stop!" It was a young man, wearing a white T-shirt, standing tall and straight. Without hesitation, he threw himself into the fight with the thugs. I was frozen, forgetting even to cry. He wasn't a match for the thugs and was soon knocked to the ground. One thug pulled out a switchblade, stabbing at his belly. "No!" I screamed and lunged forward, but they shoved me away. Blood immediately soaked through his white T-shirt. The thugs, seeing blood, freaked out and ran off. The alley was left with only him and me. He clutched his belly, face pale, but still managed a weak smile at me. "Are you okay?" I trembled as I pulled out my phone, wanting to call 911. But he grabbed my hand, his voice weak: "Don't call yet, just take me to the nearby clinic." I supported him, step by step, walking out of the alley. His blood soaked through my sleeve—warm to the touch, but strangely comforting. Later, I found out his name was Raymond Shawn. Because of that one slash, he lost a kidney. I went to the hospital to see him; he lay on the bed, his face still pale, but his eyes were gentle. "It's just a small injury, it's nothing," he said. His offhand tone tore me apart inside. He's like this because he saved me. At my darkest, most hopeless moment, he was like a light piercing through my abyss.