‘The Marked’
Eojin Hwang is an 11th-grade student at Newton Academy in Seoul, South Korea. She offers dynamic leadership across diverse extracurricular activities. As Co-Head of the Environmental Club and enjoys taking photraography during her free time.
The Marked
The sunlight streamed through the gaps of the rickety roof, trying to probe its way through my eyelids and make one of the only times I get to relax anymore end abruptly. I decided that instead of trying to prolong the fear that was already creeping into my body, I should just embrace the daily fear and get ready. I sat up in bed, and rubbing my eyes I looked over my poor excuse of a room – one small chest that held my belongings, a wooden chair shoved into the corner with chips out of the legs, and the bed that I was laying on that creaked every time I moved too far to the left side.
I knew something was terribly wrong the moment I looked down at my hands resting on the brown bedspread. A black mark had appeared on the top of my left hand; it almost looked like a tattoo, but I knew better. My father bore the same mark four years ago- the day that turned my mother into a barfly, and I’ve been scrambling for some sense of “normal” ever since. Every day had become a constant struggle to hide from my mother and if I do happen to run into her, I act as nice as possible to avoid a torrent of screaming. My chest tightened and I fought for my next breath; trying in vain to wipe away the mark, as if it was a cruel trick.
A thump from the other room told me that my mother was indeed awake and most likely hungover, but more importantly it meant I needed to somehow hide my hand- and quick. I dragged my legs over the side of the bed, earning a small creak from the rusty frame before realizing my stupidity of trying to hide the mark, because no matter what at the end of the night I would not be in this town anymore; I would be gone. Even through her perpetual drunken state my mother would eventually realize that her only daughter was gone, and she was alone in her poor excuse of a home. It hadn’t been a home since dad left, bearing the same tattoo.
I stood up and padded as quietly as I could over to my chest, and pulled out the nicest-looking jeans I owned and an olive-green t-shirt. My beat-up combat boots went on last, before I decided on a whim to put my father’s old dog-tag necklace on.
The door burst open behind me, my heart stopping for a second before my mother’s voice grated through my ears in the small room.
“What the hell have you been doing in here Ally? Don’t think you can slip out today without speaking to me again. Would you turn round and look at me, it feels like I’m talking to a damn wall.” She grabbed my arm and twisted me around, and immediately saw why I was avoiding her.
“No this- this can’t be right, not you too, you’re all I have left.” Tears welled up in her eyes and she pulled me towards her, grabbing me like I was already disintegrating in front of her eyes.
“Mom, look I would have never wanted for this to appear and leave you too, but you know I have no choice once the mark appears on my hand. Even if I could fight against the mark, it probably wouldn’t work.” I tried to reason with her, but the moment of clarity in her eyes was long gone, replaced with the familiar stupor of an alcoholic.
“No, just get out of here and leave me alone. You might as well let me get used to it, from now on it’s just going to be me living in this shitty house.” She left the room and I could hear bottles clinking in the kitchen, and knew that was my cue to leave.
I grabbed my small pack leaning against my chest, and put my most treasured belongings inside – a letter from my dad when I was a child, and a locket showing a portrait of my mother when she was younger. I placed them in the bag on top of my favorite black jacket and exited the house as quietly as I could.
The moment I eased the door shut I could feel something was different in the town’s atmosphere. I slowly turned around and saw the few people lounging outside in the heat staring at me, and I knew they heard mom talking to me. Damn those thin walls. I trudged towards the bakery, the pressure of everyone’s eyes on me nearly bringing me to my knees.
“Hey Marked, shouldn’t you be saying your goodbyes?” An old man jeered from his porch, as he spit in my direction. I recognized the slang used when a townsperson bore the seal of death on their hand.
I shrugged my pack higher on my shoulders, and kept my head down until I reached the bakery. May as well get a good last meal before I go, and the local bakery shop was the only place that served banana bread, my favorite pastry.
The bell rang above my head, and I inwardly cringed as everyone turned to look at who had entered the quaint shop. I tried to hide my hand so it wasn’t super obvious, but word must have gotten around since nearly everyone shook their heads and stared at me with hate in their eyes.
“Morning Ally, what can I get for you today?” The shop’s owner Mr. Callahan asked, trying hard not to stare at my left hand.
“You’re going to serve a Marked? You’ve got to be out of your mind.” Mr. Hareton, the owner of the blacksmith shop down the road asked. It looked as if he already started working today; black stains smeared down the side of his face, his hands covered in soot from the fires.
“Well, I mean, why shouldn’t I? It is her last day here, you know.” Mr. Callahan countered, looking at me sadly before giving Mr. Hareton a glare. His kind demeanor complemented the robust shape he wore, with a bushy moustache to complete the look of a woodsman who instead baked pastries for a living.
“All I’m saying is I wouldn’t want a Marked in my restaurant. I’ve heard that it increases the chances of getting marked yourself.” Leaning forward, Mr. Hareton grinned, sending chills down my spine.
“Get out of here, Hareton. I’m serving the young lady whether you like it or not. Ally, would you like a piece of banana bread?” He asked, looking again at me with those soft honey eyes.
“Yes, please,” I replied softly, trying with all my power not to cry in front of all these cruel people.
“Here you are sweetheart, and don’t worry about paying, you’ve had enough trouble this morning.” He glanced over at Mr. Hareton, who turned away with a smirk as he sipped his coffee.
I thanked Mr. Callahan graciously and left the store quickly, feeling everyone’s gazes like knives aimed at my back. I ran over to the field closest to me and sat down among the tall weeds, hiding myself from the world as if I was an abomination to the human race. Well, I guess in some ways I really am. I opened the package and noticed that Mr. Callahan gave me not one but two pieces of bread for free.
“Oh, thank you Mr. Callahan, you’re the only one left in this town that has a heart,” I whispered, tears running down my face as I savored the moist, dense banana bread.
As I licked the crumbs off my fingers, it occurred to me that I should at least try to say goodbye to my childhood friend, Micah. Hopefully he would look past the mark for at least a moment, hopefully the only person that sort-of cared about and like me did not shun me as the whole town did.
I stood up slowly and bent down to grab my pack when I felt something hard hit my back. I looked up to see three younger boys staring at me with contempt in their eyes, and rocks in their hands scamper away before I could yell at them. A flame of anger licked at my heart and I grabbed the rock from beside my foot, throwing it at the lingering dust trail they left running away.
I rubbed my back before putting my pack back on, and I trudged over to Micah’s house, trying to stay in the alleyways between houses, or any shadows. More than once I heard “Marked” being muttered around me, pieces of trash thrown in my direction, or looks of disgust as I passed them. Finally, I reached Micah’s house.
Micah’s house had deep brown wooden siding encasing the outside, with moss green shutters attached to each window. There were no spaces between the walls, and the steps were not rotting or sagging like my house was. My mind reminded me of the times where Micah and I would sit on his porch sipping tart lemonade until the sun turned a burnt orange in the sky, and the chill of the night finally drove us inside. Tears pricked at my eyes, but did not escape as I noticed Micah standing on his deck gazing over at me, his expression unreadable.
“Hey Micah,” I called hesitantly, not knowing how he would respond to me standing in front of his house.
“Hey Ally, do you want to come inside for a little bit? My parents are not home so you can stay, we just have to be careful they don’t see you here,” he replied and ushered me up the four steps leading into his home.
As soon as Micah shut the door his body relaxed, and I realized that he had been crying recently; dark purple marks dominating the skin under his eyes.
“I didn’t think I would cry when I heard this morning from one of the townspeople that you were the newest Marked. Once I heard it was truly you though, a piece of me broke. I couldn’t believe that the person I have spent almost every waking day with will be gone by the time the sun descends under the horizon. Why you? Why couldn’t have been one of the old mean men roaming around this godforsaken town? You, Ally, are too pure for this shitty ending,” his voice cracked at the end and fresh tears dropped from his face.
I wrapped my arms around his waist and held on tight, trying to hold our friendship together for the measly hours I has left. Micah’s arms cradled my body as he laid his head in the crook of my neck. We stood there, silent, until Micah slowly lifted his head up and let go of our embrace. He sat down heavily on the chestnut-colored couch and patted the seat next to him. I sunk into the couch, and we just sat there staring at nothing in real life, but flying through every memory between us since the day we first met, trying to find peace within this brutal storm I was now in. I placed my hand softly on his hand, and took solace in the silence surrounding us.
“Ally, don’t forget me, you hear? Even if you die and there is no way you can think, do not forget about me, or the endless nights talking about the stupidest things on my porch, or going swimming in the river next to your house to get out of the overwhelming heat. Don’t forget about me, because I will never forget you.” Micah squeezed my hand when he said this, and stared into my eyes so earnestly I had no choice but to agree with him, even though what he proposed was impossible.
Micah opened his mouth to say something else when I heard voices coming from outside the door. Fear flashed across his face, and I knew his parents were home. I needed to leave- now. We jumped up from the couch and rushed over to the door leading out to the fields behind Micah’s house. I noticed the sun was quite low in the sky; it would not be long now until my death. Micah hugged me one last time and pressed his lips against my forehead before he slipped back inside to meet his parents before they noticed I was there.
I snuck into the weeds, and slowly made my way over to a hill that bordered on the edge of our town. It wasn’t a huge hill, but the view of the sunset from there was beautiful, and it seemed fitting to watch the sunset on my last day of existence. I climbed to the top and set my pack down next to me, sitting in the soft blanket of grass covering the crest of the hill. The weight of the day cracked my façade, and tears dripped down my cheeks, and hit the blades of grass beneath me; the soft splat the only noise around me.
I would never taste Mr. Callahan’s pastries again; the soft buttery kind that melt in your mouth, warm from the oven in the back. I would never see my poor mother again; the woman who lost everything and herself, who I still somehow loved. I would never get to spend another balmy summer’s night with Micah, sipping lemonade and being near him; the only true friend I ever made.
I wiped the tears away, so I could watch the sun dip below the horizon one last time. The yellow hues gave way to a deep burnt orange that stayed in the sky until darkness crept over the landscape, taking my happiness with it. I tried to wipe away the mark once more, before standing up and pacing back and forth, the dread eating away at my heart.
Twenty minutes went by, and I became increasingly puzzled as to why I wasn’t dead yet, when I felt a pinch in my arm. My eyes drooped and my head felt like a cinderblock was placed upon my shoulders. Before I blacked out, I saw a masked figure approach me. Silence fell over me like a thick blanket, taking away my senses and bringing me to my final destination.
~ ~ ~ ~
I felt cold concrete beneath me, and for a moment I was unsure if I was alive or dead. My body ached; the drug I was given still not completely worn off. I shifted slightly, and that’s when I noticed the thumping pulse underneath my palm. My other senses came back to me, and that’s when I noticed the piercing light coming from above me. I squinted, lifting my hand off the ground to shield my eyes, but it did not help- all I saw was white. I looked down instead, and saw the concrete was covered in grime, and what looked to be blood. I pulled myself off the ground, disgusted, and took in my surroundings.
I seemed to be at a maze entrance; the dark stone walls looming fifty feet above my head. The stone was older, covered in moss and cracks, and I reached out my hand to brush against its surface. It was cold, and when I decided to look above my head again, I could make out rows and rows of seats filled with people. I was filled with a sense of dread, and that’s when I heard the announcer’s voice.
“Welcome everyone to tonight’s main event! Witness as Ally, contestant number 400, tries her luck in the Maze of Thorns. Will she be the first contestant to make it through, or will fans once again be let down? Only time will tell my dear friends, so let’s start the countdown.
Five…
Four…
Three…
Two…
One.”
Alexandria Wyckoff has a BA in Creative Writing from SUNY Oswego. She has one book of poetry titled The Pain Cycle, with work also appearing in BarBar, Kennings Literary Journal, The Bookends Review, and others. Find more of her work at https://www.alexandriawyckoff.com/
