Scars of My Past

By DC Renee

My life was one of those teen angst rom-coms where the ugly high school student transforms herself into the beauty queen. Except there was no cute guy helping me along, no series of makeover shots with fun background music, no scene where I walked into the room and all heads turned to look at me while wind blew through my hair. I was the ugly high school student, and I did transform, but it wasn’t all peaches and cream.
Bullied so badly in high school that it ruined my life, I spent my senior year in therapy. It was there that I transformed – not just physically, but mentally as well. I wanted a fresh start and going to college across the country was my ticket to that. It was a whole new world, and things were great ...
... and then came the blast from my past.
And he didn’t recognize me. What was a girl to do? Revenge, of course! My plan was to make him fall for me and then break his heart.
Sounds simple, right? Wrong. If only revenge was black and white ... too bad a lot of gray was in the mix. But one thing was for sure – I needed a way to heal the scars from my past. I just hoped I could.

• Language: English
• Publisher: DC Renee
• Release date: Jun 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370771844

DC Renee

I'm a bookworm, naturally. I've been writing all my life, from cheesy poems in elementary school to short stories and even fan fictions. I love reading almost as much as I love writing, but I love my family even more. I have the most supportive husband, the best parents, in-laws who root for me, and a my sister is my muse. She rejects or approves of literally every chapter I write. It's thanks to all of them and my fans that I keep doing what I do.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

SOMETIMES THINGS HAPPEN in life that change the person you were; things mold you into someone else or steer you in a different direction. It doesn’t always have to be something big or even traumatic to make you become a different person. I used to be overweight. Not horribly fat but definitely chunky for my body type. I used to have acne that left my face with dry, red splotches after I had applied the cream on my skin. I wore braces to fix my crooked teeth and small overbite. And for a little while, I even had that embarrassing headgear thing going on. I used to wear glasses because I couldn’t fathom sticking my finger in my eye for contacts.

I talk about myself like I was a freak; the girl everyone made fun of, picked on, and bullied. It wasn’t that bad actually, but I just had to get through that phase. Sure, I was self-conscious, but what I lacked in looks, I made up for in personality. I wasn’t going to win any popularity contests, but in general, everyone liked me. They found my ability to laugh at myself charming, my sweet disposition appealing, and my willingness to provide homework help a definite bonus.

Only one cloud hung over my high school life. One person made me dread going to school, made me stare at myself in the mirror for hours wishing I was someone else, and made the smile fall off my face just by looking at me. He made me hate myself, hate everything about me, hate my very existence. He was the epitome of a bully, but he only seemed to direct it at me.

I had been taught at an early age and had read enough novels to wonder if he did that because he liked me. You know that whole if he hits you, it’s because he likes you thing? But we were in high school, not elementary school, and I was no dummy. I knew what I looked like. A guy like him didn’t crush on a girl like me. No, he bullied me because he simply hated me.

He was a year older than I was, and we had no classes together. We didn’t have the same friends, and I don’t even think he knew my name. If he did, he didn’t call me by it. He didn’t need to know my name, though, to hit me where it counted. Physical wounds healed. Emotional ones left a scar on your heart.

His words, carelessly thrown in my direction every time I saw him, really did a number on me. I had a breakdown near the end of my junior year. I kept hoping that if I could hold out for just a little longer, he’d be gone the following year, and I would be in the clear. But the constant verbal assaults made that impossible.

The first time he taunted me was nothing too crazy. I’d brushed it off as just a guy being an asshole.

Hey, watch where the fuck you’re going, bitch, he said after he’d run into me.

S-sorry, I stuttered even though he’d come barreling around the corner, knocking into me and sending my books flying.

He hadn’t even stopped to help me pick up my things before he ran off.

I wrote him off after that, but I shouldn’t have. A week later, he found me. He always found me—like I was his personal punching bag even if I didn’t understand why.

I lived too far from home to walk, I had no car, and the bus system in my city wasn’t convenient for travel. This meant I stayed late a lot, waiting for my parents to pick me up after work.

What the fuck are you looking at? he snarled as I came down the hall. He must have just come from football practice because he was still wearing his gear. I hadn’t even thought twice about walking past him when he rammed his hand into the nearest locker after looking at his phone. I gasped, which had caught his attention.

Nothing, I said quickly.

That’s fucking right, bitch, he snapped. Bitch, he’d said—his choice word for me. He was very clever. A true wordsmith. Then he started stalking toward me, and my sarcastic thoughts died instantly as fear took over. For a moment, I was frozen, afraid of what he’d do, but he just brushed past me, shoving me a little with his body.

After that, he seemed to always find me when I was alone; when no one was nearby to save me from him. Most of the time, it was after school when everyone had already gone home.

Why are you always here? he asked. Are you following me? Are you a stalker? Should I be worried you’re going to come to school with a gun and shoot me? Unjust words from him, especially since I had tried my best to avoid him, but it was like the universe hated me.

Do you like me or something? Get a clue. I’ll never fucking be with you, bitch.

Why are you always alone? What? You have no friends? You a loser or something?

You trying out for the part of a robot with that thing on your face?

How do you get through a metal detector with so much metal on your head?

What are you wearing? You shop at Thrifty?

Those overalls make you look like a cow.

Where do you get your hair cut? Haircuts for Losers?

He never got physical with me, never harmed me—maybe shoved me out of his way once or twice—but he didn’t need to. His words hurt more than punches would have. He made me doubt myself; he made me feel ugly, fat, and like a loser. I rarely looked in the mirror because I hated what I saw.

I begged my parents to pick me up early from school, but realistically, they couldn’t because of their work schedules. I tried to miss school. Please don’t make me go to school, I told them. When they asked why, I told them I was being bullied by a boy. Just ignore him, they answered. They didn’t understand the emotional stress he was causing. I believed his words, believed I wasn’t worthy to breathe the same air as he was, believed I was the bane of everyone’s existence.

He got under my skin—every freaking time—and each time, it was worse. It’s not even that his taunting got worse; it’s that a little tiny piece of me died each time he bullied me. Slowly, he was chipping away at the fortress around my heart, and when the last brick fell, all his words rushed at my heart, overwhelming it.

It was at the end of my junior year when I felt my fight leave. I had been holding out, hoping my senior year would be different because he wouldn’t be there, but I just couldn’t make it to senior year. I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror. I couldn’t stand my own skin.

It was the last time he taunted me, the last time I heard his words, but not the last time I heard them in my head. I couldn’t take it anymore. I came home and scrubbed my skin with scalding hot water, desperately trying to rub away his words that had seeped into my pores. I tried to rub away my very essence—me—from my own skin. I couldn’t stand who I was anymore. He’d done that, but I’d believed him.

I looked at myself in the mirror that day, and all I saw were his words—a bitch. A loser. An ugly, fat nobody.

I didn’t want to be that anymore. I didn’t want to look at myself in the mirror anymore. I threw the soap dispenser at the mirror, breaking into a million shards. When I picked up one jagged piece, I had only one thought—that I wanted the pain to end.

My parents found me passed out in the bathroom, blood dripping from the wounds on my wrists. They called 911, and I was rushed to the hospital.

I landed in the psych ward when I was released from suicide watch. I don’t know that I even wanted to die. I just wanted his voice in my head to shut up for a little while. I wanted to feel the pain of something else—something other than the words eating me from the inside out.

I spent almost a year in a therapy program, healing myself bit by bit. At first, I had done it for my parents because I knew it killed them to know I was hurting. They thought they’d failed me when they didn’t listen to my pleas. The truth was, they couldn’t understand unless they’d been in my shoes. I didn’t blame them, but I wanted to do this for them. Slowly, with time, I realized I was also doing it for me. I needed to learn how to be all right with myself, how to be in control of my emotions, and how to survive for me.

I missed my senior year of high school. Just another thing he took from me. I missed all the fun activities associated with the last year of being a minor. I didn’t mind, though, because I had needed that time away from life, away from my life. And a part of me was afraid to go back. I knew, logically, that he wouldn’t be there, but the ugly memories he left behind were still there. I knew I’d see his image taunting me as I walked down the hall, mocking me in my head and smirking at my discomfort. I couldn’t go back there, and therapy gave me a reprieve from that. But it also gave me so much more.

During that year, I found myself. I found who I needed to be to feel better about myself. I completed my GED while in the outreach program. I applied to colleges far, far away. And I vowed when I was done, I would be a different person.

That meant I changed who I was, both inside and out. I wore thick bracelets—leather bands—around my wrists to hide the permanent reminder of my former life. I worked out, and I slimmed down, found curves I didn’t know existed. My braces came off, and my teeth were like those of movie stars. I found the courage to switch from glasses to contacts. My doctor switched my acne cream, and it cleared up.

I also cut and highlighted my hair, learned how to style it, figured out how to wear the right makeup for my face, and dressed like I was into fashion. Amy, a friend in the program, had actually taught me these things. And we stayed friends long after both of us had left even though I was now literally across the country.

When I got my acceptance letter to attend the University of Southern California, I jumped up and down, whooped real loud, and threw my arms around the person closest to me.

Not only was I a new person, but I also had a real chance to start over where no one knew me.

I would no longer introduce myself as, Genevieve, but my friends call me Gen. Gen was long gone, replaced by someone with more confidence, a better style, prettier, and stronger. Gen was a little girl, and I would be a woman.

Tyler Haywood had been the thing in my life that changed me. And as much as I hated him, as much as I had suffered because of him, he shaped me, molded me, and turned me into who I was now. And the person I was now? I liked her. I liked her a lot.

CHAPTER ONE

Present

Genevieve

WHEN I STARTED college, I was shy, nervous even. I had learned to love myself and became comfortable in my own skin, but doubts always have a way of lingering. I had never been kissed or gone on a date; I hadn’t even gotten the attention of guys before. I had to get used to the looks I was getting when I walked around campus—the ones from guys who wanted to have me for dinner and the ones from girls who appreciated my looks.

Having an overly confident roommate who I’d met during orientation helped. Amanda took one look at me and decided we’d be best friends. Where I had a quiet confidence about myself, she knew she looked good and rocked it. Where I thought about my words before I spoke them, she blurted out whatever felt right. Where I was pale with brown hair and light hazel eyes, she was blond and tan with bright blue eyes. I think we balanced each other out, which was why we got along so well.

Within the first few days we’d roomed together, she turned and said, You know, Genevieve, we all have things in our past we want to bury deep. Some are worse than others, sure, but it’s not a competition of whose pain is worse. You’re beautiful, you’re strong, and you survived.

How’d you know? I asked her because, even if she didn’t know the details, she clearly understood something about what I’d been through.

Your bracelets, she said as she flicked her head toward my wrists. No matter how sentimental they are, no one wears them constantly like you do. Like a shield. Or like you’re hiding something.

I tasted salt on my lips as I realized tears had been silently streaming down my cheeks. Then it was like the floodgates opened, and I sobbed as I told Amanda everything. After that moment, she made it her duty to tell me how wonderful I was each day. She forced me to participate in extracurricular activities like dorm parties, frat events, or just even hanging out at the bars with friends.

She’d become my rock, and I appreciated her.

And if self-doubt ever crept up, I’d just repeat her words from that day in my head like a mantra. You’re beautiful, you’re strong, and you survived.

I repeated those words the first day of spring semester my freshman year.

I had been rushing to get to my first class so I wouldn’t be late.

Amanda was definitely all about school spirit, and when news of the new star quarterback who had transferred in made its way to her, that meant it made its way to me.

They said we’ve been trying to recruit him since he was in high school, she told me like a giddy child. They finally got him because he hasn’t been getting any play time at his old school.

Can you even transfer schools in the middle of the year? I asked her, not caring about our football team. If it wasn’t for Amanda, I wouldn’t have even gone to any of the games.

If you’re a hotshot quarterback, you can do anything, she responded, and I could practically see her saying, Duh, right after. Hilary said he’s hot.

And how would Hilary know? I asked. Hilary had been in one of Amanda’s classes. They’d become friends, which meant we’d become friends.

She just does, Amanda huffed. I bet he’s gorgeous like Tony Romo. Even I knew who Tony Romo was because he was definitely on the good-looking scale. "And I bet he has muscles for days. Mmm. I wonder what his abs look like."

I laughed at Amanda’s antics. She giggled in response and threw her pillow at me. I looked at the clock and realized I had only a few minutes to get to class.

Shit, we’re gonna be late, I said as I scrambled to grab my books. We didn’t have the same class, but our classes started at the same time.

We’ll be fine, she said as she lazily grabbed her things. It’s the first day.

All the more reason to be there on time. Good first impression and everything. Or how about the fact they could give our seats away?

Okay, okay, let’s go, she said as we walked out of our dorm. She gave me a quick hug once we were outside before heading in the opposite direction as I did.

I was so consumed with getting to my class on time that I didn’t see who was standing in the hall waiting for me.

Genny, I heard him say, and I cringed as I halted in my tracks. A few students were milling around, but none of them had taken notice to my sudden stop.

Marc, with a c. I fought the urge to roll my eyes at the way he’d introduced himself. What are you doing here? I asked, clutching my books to my chest as if they could protect me. I’d met him at one of the frat parties we’d gone to the previous semester. I hadn’t had any experience with guys, so when he came on to me and showered me with attention, I took his bait. He was cute in a pretty-boy way, and he was charming. I went on three dates with him. He’d been a true gentleman for the first two and a half dates. It wasn’t until near the end of the third when he insinuated what would happen later that night. We hadn’t even kissed, and he wanted to have sex with me?

I told him point-blank it wasn’t happening. He got angry, called me a bunch of not-so-nice words, and practically kicked me out of the car. I’d been hurt and upset, but Amanda had saved the day by going out and getting more candy and chocolate than we could eat. By the next day, I was actually feeling better. And then two days later, I ran into Marc again, and he asked me when we’d go out again. I told him I thought that was a bad idea.

He hadn’t thought so.

I spent the remainder of my first semester, which thankfully was only a little over a week, avoiding him. It would have been harder to avoid him if everyone on campus wasn’t busy studying and trying to pass their finals.

Then I went home for winter break. He’d texted and called a couple of times, but I didn’t respond, and toward the end, he’d stopped. I breathed easier when I hadn’t heard from him in a few days.

So then why in the world was he standing just outside my classroom as if he’d been waiting for me?

You’ve been avoiding me, he said as he stepped closer .

I just got back to campus a few days ago, I told him as the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. He gave me the creeps—something I wished I had figured out before I agreed to go on the first date with him. Funny what kind of shitty luck I’d had with guys. I’d only had two experiences—the first was Tyler, who’d ruined my world without even knowing me, and now, freaking Marc was ruining my first dating experience. After this, I was done with guys forever. Or at least for a long time.

You haven’t answered my calls or my texts, he said as he continued toward me.

I was busy with finals and then with my family, I said as I stepped back. But for each tiny step back, it seemed like he took ten toward me. I looked hesitantly around to see if there was anyone in the hallway, anyone who could help me. There wasn’t. We were alone.

You think you’re too good for me? he asked.

No, I croaked. No, I repeated.

I’ll show you too good for me, he said just as he shoved me back. I lost my balance, falling backward as my books landed beside me with a thud.

I was shaking, afraid of what he’d do next. My head hung down, eyeing my books as if they’d been my fortress and now that fortress was in shambles.

And then suddenly, I was no longer afraid.

You think it’s okay to hit girls? I snapped my gaze up at his words, the timbre of his voice sending a shiver down my spine.

Marc was pinned against the wall by a guy whose posture screamed don’t mess with me. I couldn’t see his face, but I’d bet his eyes were alight with fire. His whole body was coiled tight, and I could make out the muscles and ridges beneath his shirt. He was bigger than Marc was and much scarier, but he wasn’t scaring me.

I didn’t fucking touch her, Marc responded, but I could hear the hesitation in his voice. Whoever had come to my rescue was making an impression on Marc.

You didn’t fucking touch her? the guy asked incredulously before letting out a mirthless laugh. You won’t fucking touch her again, he said, his voice deadly and full of promise. You won’t even fucking breathe the same air she breathes; got it? Marc didn’t respond. Got it? the guy asked again.

Yeah, Marc finally choked out. She’s not worth it, he said as my savior let him go. Marc cast me a dirty look before practically running away.

Stuck in my position on the floor, I was mesmerized by the display before me, but as soon as Marc ran off, I snapped back to reality. I gathered my things before standing up so I could thank the guy properly.

Here, let me help you, he said and grabbed the last book off the floor. We stood at the same time, and when I finally lifted my head to look at him, and I gasped. He looked so much like … no. It couldn’t be. Are you all right? he asked. I was still in my fog, memories assaulting me. He couldn’t be him; he just couldn’t, but the resemblance was so uncanny. Maybe they were related. Cousins perhaps. Hey, are you okay? he asked again. He didn’t hurt you, right? It definitely wasn’t him. Tyler Haywood was an asshole of epic proportions. He wasn’t a knight in shining armor ready to take down dragons on my behalf.

Oh, uh, yeah, thank you. Thank you for that, I said as I found my voice; my reservations were pretty apparent despite my true appreciation of what he’d done for me.

You have Writing 140 right now? he asked. I nodded. Me too, he said and then stuck out his hand. Cameron, by the way. Cameron Dents, but you can call me Cam.

And just like that, any lingering uncertainty vanished. I took his warm hand in mine as I studied his face for a moment. He was stunning, absolutely stunning. Dark brown hair, chocolate brown eyes, and a tan that rivaled Amanda’s. I’d already gotten a glimpse of his body, and I knew it was the kind I’d only ever seen in magazines and on TV. I blushed for the first time in a long time as I responded. Genevieve Breitling, I said with a wide smile.

Genevieve, he repeated. Beautiful name.

Thank you, truly, thank you for helping me. Not everyone would have stepped in.

Anyone worthy would have, he said with a shrug, clearly not good with taking appreciation.

Well, uh, I guess we’d better get to class, I said.

After you, he said, and I led the way inside. And when he sat down beside me near the back, I realized two things. One—Cam had just given me hope that not all guys were assholes, and maybe I wasn’t done with them after all. And two—I had a feeling Writing 140 would be my favorite class.

CHAPTER TWO

Past

Cameron

Three months earlier …

WE’D LIKE TO offer you a spot in our spring semester class, the woman calling from USC had said. I’d held my breath, waiting to hear what she’d say as fear, dread, and anticipation stole the very air that tried to find room in my lungs.

I … uh … yes, wow, thank you, I said, shocked and grateful.

You’re very welcome, she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. You’ll be getting a formal acceptance letter in the mail along with scholarship information.

It wasn’t common practice to receive a call from an admissions representative telling you that you got into college. But then again, although it did happen, it wasn’t common to get accepted in the spring semester rather than in the fall. I’d heard of a few cases, though—geniuses, kids whose parents donated way too much money, admission appeals. And, of course, cases like mine—the ones where I had something big enough to offer the school to warrant a spring admission.

I hung up the phone and breathed deeply, expelling the air trapped inside in one quick huff. I could literally feel the tension leaving my shoulders as the relief seeped in.

What was it like to find out you get to move far away from the home you’d known all your life? Liberating. Absolutely fucking liberating.

The home I knew wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. It was far from it. The things I’d lived through sent shivers down my spine every time I thought about my life. You’d think I would have fought against my binds once I was old enough to fight, right? I couldn’t. For a few reasons. The first was that no matter how strong I got, how tough I became, how scrappy I got at fighting, it was never enough. When I fought, I got beat down harder. I’d learned that if I wanted to survive, I just had to take it.

When you’d lived with something for so long—when you’re constantly told you’re nothing, a piece of shit, a loser—you eventually believed it. You think you deserved the wrath, the pain, and the humiliation. Some people said it was a form of brainwashing. Maybe it was ... or maybe it was just a spirit being broken down.

And the last reason was embarrassment. I was a guy, a strong guy, a popular guy, a good guy. Things like that didn’t happen to guys like me. But they did. They had.

You’d think I would have gotten away when I went to college, right? But some things were so beaten into you that you didn’t question them. When I was told I was attending a college nearby and living at home, I did. It also didn’t help I was expected to stay local and be the