The Scars We Bear

By Kirk Shamley

Two teenagers, two tales interwoven by a shared intrigue. Their distinct temperaments guide them along separate paths through a demanding chapter of youthful existence. As they confront adversities both solo and side by side, the longing for independence dances a delicate duet with the need for connection. The Scars We Bear delves into the tumultuous journey of adolescence, exploring what it truly demands not merely to navigate through it, but to flourish with resilience and newfound wisdom. Through trials and triumphs, our young protagonists unveil the essence of camaraderie and the indomitable spirit of youth in facing life's early storms.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jul 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9798889108283

Kirk Shamley

Kirk Shamley is a retired obstetrician/gynecologist ensconced on the windswept plains of Wyoming. Contrary to a rumor originated by his mentor, his surgical apparel never included cowboy boots, chaps, or spurs.

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About the Author

Kirk Shamley is an average guy forever in search of a good story. He lives with his wife and cat while braving the wind-swept plains of Wyoming.

Dedication

To Kendra, Erin, Corey, and Noah.

Memento vivere… don’t let your story wither away inside you.

Copyright Information ©

Kirk Shamley 2024

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Shamley, Kirk

The Scars We Bear

ISBN 9798889108276 (Paperback)

ISBN 9798889108283 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023921469

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

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Part One

Derek

Prologue

Yesterday I was clever, so I wanted to change the world.

Today I am wise, so I am changing myself.

Rumi

Isn’t it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day

with no mistakes in it yet?

L. M. Montgomery

Life can only be understood backwards;

but it must be lived forwards.

Soren Kierkegaard

We all have those times in our lives, pushed to the breaking point, absolutely pure hell to live through. In the here and now, looking back, you come to understand that, as a snag in the tapestry of your life, if you were to tug on it, everything that you’ve come to be, to know, to accept, would simply unravel into nothing.

Holding my newborn daughter, the new father, the inexperience in me wants to know what I could possibly have to offer, in terms of wisdom, of guidance, of advice to a young person embarking on life. Nevertheless, I realize there is one thing I can do.

Ashley, I promise to always do my best, to be the father you deserve. There will be mistakes—I’m going to screw up more than you will ever know. But hear this…I will love you with all of my heart for every moment that I live.

Chapter 1

Live as if you were to die tomorrow.

Learn as if you were to live forever.

Mahatma Gandhi

Let me not then die ingloriously and without a struggle,

but let me first do some great thing

that shall be told among men hereafter.

Homer

The principal goal of education in the schools

should be creating men and women who are capable of doing new things,

not simply repeating what other generations have done.

Jean Piaget

A five-minute penalty for checking from behind. That’s what this is. Finish middle school on top, in charge, like you know everything. Then, wham…high school.

Just when you think you’ve got a handle on things, life blindsides you, like getting a cheap shot while trying to dig the puck out of the corner. Confidence shaken, kinda gun-shy, you don’t chase after the puck with the same reckless abandon for a while. As long as you don’t get lit up again right away, eventually you’ll start getting comfortable on your skates and play your game again. At least, I’m hoping high school works the same as hockey. And life too, I suppose.

Freshly out of the shower, I’m pulling on the new pair of jeans my mom bought me. Lucky me, she went all out and got me a few shirts, too. I know how tight money is, so I really appreciate the effort. Unlike Sharon, my older sister. She wouldn’t be happy even if my folks spent a million dollars on all the latest fashions for her to wear. Ungrateful…

Derek, honey, Mom interrupts with a call and a knock at the door.

Yeah? I finish pulling one those new shirts over my head.

She cracks the door to my room and peeks in. First day of high school, I made a special breakfast, her pleasant voice announces, her face adorned with the ever-present smile.

Be right out. Moms! Just gotta love ’em.

I park at the dining room table and she sets a heaping plate in front of me. Your favorite, ‘pakes and sup’.

That’s what I used to say when I was little. She loves to bring that up every time we have ’em for breakfast. I’m not her baby anymore, but maybe she never wants me to grow up, her way of holding on. Still, she was right about a special breakfast—bacon and eggs and pancakes. Best ever.

I’m going to town on the chow when I realize she just said something and raise my eyebrows to her.

I said, your lunch is on the table, she repeats, pointing to my right while simultaneously taking a sip from her coffee cup.

I glance over at a brown bag bulging with what I expect to be the usual fare—sandwich, chips, probably some fruit, maybe a few cookies. Next to it is a spiffy new backpack I haven’t seen before.

I swallow my current bite of pancakes and lick my lips. What’s that? I ask, pointing with my chin.

You’re starting high school. I thought an important day in a young man’s life warrants something to commemorate it.

That wasn’t necessary. My old one is still good.

Perhaps. But I wanted to.

An obnoxious honk interrupts our conversation and I check my watch. Matt said his dad would give me a ride but they aren’t due for another ten minutes or so.

Sharon bursts from her room down the hall and flashes through the kitchen.

That’s Sissy.

Have a good day, honey, Mom calls out to a slamming front door.

I see the disappointment registering on her face, but to her credit, she never says anything. My sister is a senior this year so today is a milestone for her too. And for my mom, though you’d never know it. Sharon’s sour disposition seems to spoil everything, even good stuff.

You get her a new backpack too? I ask facetiously, tipping my head toward the front door.

Oh, no. That’d never do.

What would?

She shrugs and takes another sip of coffee. A car, she says nonchalantly, then a smile creeps over her face. But a Ferrari is not in my budget.

We break out into laughter together, a joke shared at my sister’s expense. Then I remember that my mom’s usually already left for work by this time.

Hey, why aren’t you at work?

She waves me off. I asked for permission to come in an hour late so I could get my children off to their first day of school.

Mom, I moan, rolling my eyes.

I’m transferring my notebooks and stuff to my new backpack when another horn blares. I grab my dishes to put ‘em in the sink.

I’ll take care of those. You get going.

Thanks. Love you. A quick peck on her cheek, I collect my new backpack, and off to start high school. Just hope it’s not a march to the gallows.

Chapter 2

Too much sanity may be madness and the maddest of all,

to see life as it is and not as it should be.

Miguel de Cervantes

Life is lived in the present and directed toward a future.

Milton Erickson

Life isn’t about finding yourself.

Life is about creating yourself.

George Bernard Shaw

Gotta grab a workout.

After classes, my routine is to head down to the weight room. Mostly, I need to build up my legs for hockey, but I like to balance out my upper body too. Besides, I get jacked seeing the effects it’s having on my physique. After a few sets, gotta go stand in front of the mirrors to check my progress. I’m no body builder so striking a full pose down session is gonna look kinda stupid. Still, a little flexing here and there fuels the ego a bit.

To some degree, you want the other guys to appreciate what you’ve got, but in all honestly, it’s about the girls. Always about the girls…and catching their eye. Mom once teased me that the girls may be doing their hair and fixing their make-up, but it’s really the boys doing the work to attract the girls. ‘Spreading your plumage like peacocks’, she said. I flex once more and gaze at my reflection. Yeah, guess maybe so.

I also need some bulk to hold up to the high school players. Bigger, faster, so I gotta be ready. Been reading that increased strength and conditioning helps prevent injury too, and if you get injured, it helps you recover faster, so that’s a side motivation. Some of those sore spots in my body end up lasting for the whole season.

Then it’s some intervals on the stationary bike. Sprint for a minute and then pace for two or three. Been reading about that, too. Work out like you play, they say. None of that five-mile run shit, thank God. Although I admit, it’s kinda tough giving up that Rocky image and mentality. Hard to hear that inspirational music playing in your head while you’re on a stationary bike. Just not the same really.

While I’m walking home, I plug in my ear buds for some tunes. My folks got ’em for my last birthday, along with a used iPod. Matt was nice enough to download a bunch of music for me since I don’t have a computer or internet access to do it myself. I’m jammin’, feelin’ pretty good, and as I approach my house, I see my sister’s friend, Sissy, standing on the porch. She’s not too bad to look at, I must say. Pretty hot, really, but then my sister appears.

Talk about slammin’ on the brakes. You know that movie where the guy sees what someone looks like based on what they’re like inside? If they’re nice inside he sees beautiful, but if they’re mean or bad he sees ugly. That’s my sister and that’s what I’m thinking as I walk up the sidewalk to our house.

Sissy smiles at me coyly and says in what I presume to be her effort at a seductive tone, Hi, Derek.

She doesn’t have to try—she’s gotta sexy voice. I feel myself blush a little, then notice a stirring below my belt. Hey, I return shyly.

As they head to the driveway, I overhear Sissy giggle and titter to Sharon. Your little brother is getting to be a little hottie.

Then I hear Sharon shut her down, along with my ego. Oh please. Come on, we’ll be late.

Wow…that was cool to hear! Not Sharon of course, but Sissy. I wait to turn around until I get inside. I peek through the storm door as they pull out of the driveway and speed off in that badass, red Camaro. I feel my arms. Guess the weights must be working. Her comment tempts me for a trip to the bathroom to beat off, but the associated image of my sister kinda kills it for me.

I head to the kitchen for a glass of milk and some of this protein powder I talked my mom into buying for me. Been reading about that, too. Supposed to help me put on weight and build muscle. A little desperation is starting to settle in—I’ll do pretty much anything at this point. Nasty tasting stuff so I smother it with a bunch of chocolate syrup and shake the hell outa the mixer cup for about a minute. Now, it’s tolerable.

I plop on my bed and stare at the posters on the wall while I finish my protein shake. I wanted to be the next Sidney Crosby when I was younger. Then I decided…Screw it! I wanna be ‘Derek Gallagher’, the guy’s poster the next generation of kids puts on their walls! I finish the last swallow of my concoction. I still have time.

Not gonna get to play if I don’t keep my grades up. At least, that’s what the parental units always caution at the beginning of every season. They wouldn’t pay my hockey fees while I was growing up if I got less than B’s, so homework after school is pretty much a habit now. Plus, I hear in high school the district requires you to keep a minimum GPA, so a necessary evil…I grab my backpack and rummage through it.

Not in the mood for algebra just yet. List of basic words to memorize for French…I’ll keep those out and do ’em on the side. Here it is…Of Mice and Men. I’m only about halfway through. Not bad so far. These worker guys sound way too much like the guys I hang out with. Some smart ones, some not-so-smart ones, bossy ones, angry ones, some mean ones, some damaged ones. And they all have the hots for the same girl.

After an hour or so, I hear Mom come home. Shortly, she knocks on my door and peeks in.

Hi, honey, I’m home. I’ll get started on dinner.

Sure thing. I’d kinda like to finish this book first.

She kisses her fingertips and pulls the door closed to cover her exit.

I finish the last page and immediately sit upright. Holy shit! That’s intense! I start to immediately rethink my ideas about friendship. I mean, we all want friends and stuff, but fuck me. This makes you stop and think about what it takes to actually be someone else’s friend. I mean, a real friend.

I shake my head. Then I imagine Lenny and George and wonder if that’s where they get the notion for ‘through thick or thin’ when describing commitment?

Chapter 3

Better to die standing, than to live on your knees.

Che Guevara

The mystery of human existence lies not in just staying alive,

but in finding something to live for.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Follow your own path, no matter what people say.

Karl Marx

Hi ho, hi ho!

Off to the first hockey practice of the season. I catch myself actually whistling the tune and it dawns on me just how much of a dork I can truly be. Careful Derek, or those guys are gonna crush you like a dwarf.

Different game at the high school level—faster, tougher, more competitive. I’m excited, confident but the newness still nags at me, so I try to think about something else.

Fall seems to be here a little early this year. But that’s okay, I like it. Not too hot, not too cold. Walking through the crunch of leaves is kinda therapeutic for me. Makes me relax a little and forget all my hassles and shit. The colors are kinda nice—a blast right before the blah of winter. Varying shades of green, waist-deep with a smothering smell of heat and humidity.

Lots of life too, with bugs and bees and things buzzing around the weeds next to the road. And plenty of birds chirping and swooping around too. Grabbing a snack I guess. The flurry of activity seems extreme right before the first blanket of snow and the quiet of winter.

It’s about a mile or so to the school rink from my house. Not that far really. Unless you’re luggin’ your hockey bag packed with all your gear. My parents both work long hours so I’m on my own gettin’ to the rink today. I hear you get a locker to leave your gear in, but that might be only after you make the team. Not sure about the tryouts. If I’m lucky I can bum a ride home after practice. Still, I’m like the only guy who’s stuck doin’ something like this. It’s bad enough not havin’ any wheels but now I’ll be gassed before I even get on the ice.

I need to stop for a minute, to set the bag down. Damn strap cuts into my shoulder. Even though I’ve played first line most of my time in youth hockey, I have to admit, I’m a little nervous. You have to tryout in high school, unlike previous years. No more ‘you pay you play’. Pretty sure I have the skills but like I’ve said, my size concerns me a little. I grow some every year but I couldn’t put on any serious weight if my life depended on it. My checks don’t carry much punch and I get knocked on my ass way too often.

Truth be told, though, I’m psyched to play at the next level. Looking forward to the challenge, to prove myself, to set myself apart. At least, I hope I’m not puking after a coupla ladders. That would not make for a good first impression.

I heave the bag back on to my shoulder and head down an alley, cutting through an empty lot towards the back of the ice rink. The prior rink manager used to let me come in through the back and the Zamboni bay. Sam was alright but not the sharpest tool in the shed, if you know what I mean. The place was always a mess and looked like it should be condemned.

The new guy is supposed to be a lot better, but he’s such a dick. Even though he’s fixed the place up, all his friggin’ rules drive me nuts. So now I have to walk around to the front to go in.

I stop dead in my tracks. A rush of adrenaline and something tries to pull a gasp from my lungs. I’m not sure what catches my attention first, the flies, or the smell. The remains are not so gone that you can’t tell it’s a dog. White, small, some kinda terrier. Probably someone’s pet, I suppose. Damn, that sucks. I don’t know anyone I can think of who’s missing a dog, at least, no one’s told me about missing one. I can’t help feeling a sense of pity. For the dog, for the kid I don’t even know.

I’ve always wanted a dog, but my folks wouldn’t let me. More of a money issue than a responsibility issue they say. Poor little guy, wonder what happened? Someone should give him a proper burial. I would but I just don’t have the time. Sorry, pal. You deserve better. That’s the limit of my eulogy; my vigil is brief. I don’t wanna be late, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling remorse and a twinge of guilt for leaving the poor animal there. Alone.

When I turn the corner, a loud voice startles me from the focus on my feet and my doggy depression.

Deke, my man. How’s it hangin’? It comes from a tall, lanky guy with sandy hair and a smirk on his face.

I shake the image of the dog from my head but my heart is still racing from the surprise encounter in back. Hey, Mutt. I’m good. You? I stroll up to him and bump fists.

Matt Stewart is my best friend. We’ve known each other since kindergarten and played together since we were six. I’d say we’re a lot alike, except he’s bigger and hits a ton harder than I do. But he doesn’t hit the books the same way he does other hockey players. It’s not that he’s taken a few too many shots into the boards. He just doesn’t see the point. I defend him a lot ’cause most people don’t know him like I do.

I couldn’t ask for a better friend either. He’s always got my back, solid, dependable, loyal. He’s actually smarter than most people give him credit, but damn, he’s got girls on the brain, and I mean bad. Look, that’s what guys do—we think about girls, pretty much all the time. But Mutt’s…kinda over the edge.

Did you hear? Jim is… He stops mid-sentence to watch one of the figure skaters exit the building toward the parking lot. His lips purse in a silent whistle and his eyebrows get that serious look, like he’s concentrating so hard he’s gonna injure himself. It’s times like these I expect him to literally start drooling on himself.

Talk to me when you come out of your trance, dickhead. I give his bag a shove as I head toward the door.

You know, as athletic as they are, I bet one of those little things could tear a guy up.

I ignore him and go inside. Matt finds something sexual and erotic about every girl he’s ever laid eyes on. Or even heard about for that matter.

Most of the other guys are inside, waiting for Coach to check out the locker room from the desk—one of the new rink rules. My shoulder is begging for relief again so I accommodate the plea and release my bag to the floor, then make my way over to join the other players.

Hey, wait up, Matt yells and runs to catch up with me. What I wanted to tell ya was…Frazier’s gone north!

I stop in my tracks and some of the other guys cease their conversations instantaneously. Everyone around me seems to wilt a little. We all know what this means. Nearly every player in the area with any talent tends to jump ship for greener pastures in the nearby larger cities, leaving us scrambling to put a halfway competitive team on the ice. As I hear it, Sauk Senior High lost several key seniors to graduation last year but still has a solid core returning. With our incoming freshman potential, including Jim who we were counting on to be between the pipes, the optimism for the upcoming season was running high.

So, that leaves us without a goalie? Austin moans. His voice holds the hint of hope that he’s mistaken, and that Matt actually has some good news too. I must admit, I’m in the exact same mindset.

I think that guy from their roster last year still plans on playing, but shit. I hear he’s a sieve. And he has asthma, which is always actin’ up so he can’t man up when they need him.

Matt’s response is not the news we’re expecting, nor wanting, to hear.

Shit! Jim promised me he wouldn’t go! Sonofabitch! Thad spits. Snapping up his bag and sticks in a huff, he heads down to the locker rooms, stops in front of the door, and kicks it open in frustration. As he disappears from sight, I realize his display probably reflects pretty much how everyone’s feeling. We sorta stand around in limbo, looking like we all just had a shot of Novocaine for some dental work.

One of the seniors interrupts our wake and gestures with his thumb at the locker room behind him. Let’s move it, boys. We’re on the ice in thirty minutes. Freshmen check the bulletin board for your assignments.

No one really responds at first. A forlorn sense of anguish and shock, I guess. The season hasn’t even officially started and we’ve already taken a major hit.

I glance at the bulletin board like we were told to do. Fourth line. Not bad. Best I could have expected actually since it’s my first year and all. At least, I’m not one of the extras at the bottom of the list. Me, Thad, and Austin. I like skating with them for the most part. Thad’s a little too intense and it gets his ass into trouble way too often. We can usually count on him for a bunch of penalty minutes every season. On the bright side, though, we can also count on him to go all out full throttle balls-to-the-wall every shift, no matter what the situation. Like the Energizer Bunny, he just never seems to run out of gas, which gives him a good edge as a center.

And then there’s Oz, who sometimes isn’t intense enough. He’s pretty calm, cool ‘n collected when things get outta control so that balances out Thad. When he puts his mind to it, he’s faster than fucking lightning. Never seen anyone who can match him. Still, there are times when you just want to smack the guy to get him going. It is hockey, after all.

As for me, I’m the playmaker type, more of a knack for passing than scoring. Comes from taking pride in my stickwork I guess. I’ve worked my ass off to get pretty good at face-offs, too, so I bring that with my game. Anyway, we’ve played together before and we do alright, sometimes actually pretty good. Matt’ll be on defense, as usual. Being a leftie and having a slap shot that’ll stop a semi, he’s actually higher on the depth chart than you’d expect for a freshman. I note two goalies listed on the roster, Ethan Antonov and Logan Girard. Don’t know anything about either of ’em.

I head into the locker room and file my sticks in the bin by the door. Feeling kinda sheepish I admit. Being a new body, I almost expect the seniors to make us change outside. I grab a spot next to Matt on one of the benches with the other new meat and start pulling out my equipment.

Holy shit! The stink in here is almost unbearable. I know for a fact that some of the guys haven’t opened their bags since last spring and I’m startin’ to think Mutt actually has a dead body stashed somewhere in his. There’s almost this green vapor swirling from the opening in the zipper.

Don’t you ever wash your gear? I gag.

Austin chimes in, Nah, that’s part of his defensive strategy, knockin’ ’em over with his stench.

Matt just