Scar Tissue
Posted on Mon Jun 23rd, 2025 @ 3:20am by Chloe de la Vega
Edited on on Tue Jun 24th, 2025 @ 4:03pm
1,454 words; about a 7 minute read
Mission:
Episode 16 - Silent Cries
Location: After 11 - Deck 11 - USS Pioneer
Timeline: MD008 2235 hrs
The lounge had quieted to a low hum. The buzz of conversation had faded, leaving only the faint clatter of cutlery being cleared, the low whir of a drinks replicator, and the thrum of the ship beneath the floor. Chloe stood behind the bar, towel in hand, drying a glass that didn’t need drying.
A flicker of movement caught her eye. Her reflection stared back from the mirrored shelf behind the bar. Black hair slightly tousled, brown eyes tired but alert. Then she saw it. The faint, silvery line on her right cheek. It was barely noticeable in this light. It was subtle, but she always saw it.
She touched it without thinking. Just a brush of her fingers, like she was confirming it was still there. That it was still real.
It always was.
Three Years Ago
It had started like every other fight.
But this time… she’d had enough.
The front door whispered open as Chloe stepped inside, heels clicking softly on the tile floor. Her long black coat swayed as she moved further into her home. She looked like someone who knew how to turn heads. She wasn’t drunk, but warm from wine. Light in the head. Just enough to speak without filtering.
She hadn’t meant to stay out that late.
The lights were still on. Of course they were.
Her father sat forward in his chair, glass in hand, as if he’d been waiting. Her mother stood nearby, rigid, silent. Two of her brothers lingered near the archway, tense. The air felt too still.
“Buenas noches,” Chloe said, voice light, falsely sweet.
Gabriel de la Vega didn’t respond immediately. His gaze travelled from her face to her shoes to the line of her dress.
“¿Dónde estabas?” (Where were you?)
She dropped her coat over the armrest. “Out. With friends.”
“Friends.” He let the word curdle in his mouth. “Aldrin again? And those older boys who think obeying the law is optional?”
“They treat me like I matter, Papa” she said, meeting his eyes. “You should try it sometime.”
Her mother winced. Her brothers stayed silent.
“You know who those boys are, Chloe,” he said coldly. “They use you to piss me off. And you let them.”
“I’m not doing anything to you!” she snapped. “I go out, I have a drink, I laugh. Is that so bad? Or do you just hate seeing me happy?”
His voice dropped to something sharp. “You’re seventeen. You look like a woman and act like a child.”
Chloe froze. Then, with quiet fire, “You don’t get to call me a child when you’ve never treated me like a daughter. Never been here enough to even try.”
Something cracked in years. To be what you wanted. To not be loud. To not wear the wrong thing or say the wrong thing. To impress you. Just once.”
She stepped closer, blinking back heat in her eyes.
“Do you know how pathetic it feels to beg for crumbs of affection from your own father? You call me difficult, but you built this distance. You built this scar in me before you ever laid a hand on me.”
Gabriel stood. Slowly. His face was unreadable. He said nothing.
“I just wanted you to love me,” she said, quieter now. “Not tolerate me. Not manage me. Just… just love me! Like you do the boys.”
Her voice cracked completely on the last word.
Gabriel stepped toward her. Close. His tone ice-cold. “You walk in here dressed like that, drunk, with boys who get arrested and think I’m the problem?”
“Yes!” she cried, tears on her cheeks now. “Because I’d rather be with people who see me, who listen, than the man who pretends I’m an inconvenience!”
She shoved him—not hard, but emotionally charged. He didn’t move.
The next second, his hand whipped out—backhanded, deliberate.
His academy ring sliced her cheek as it connected, a clean line of pain blooming instantly. The crack echoed through the room.
She stumbled back, hit the wall, and slid to the floor.
Blood ran warm down her cheek. She didn’t cry. At least not yet.
One of her brothers stepped forward. “Dad, that’s enough.”
Gabriel turned to him, voice low. “No te metas.” (Don’t get involved.)
Antony looked between his father and Chloe but said nothing more.
She sat on the floor, stunned. Breathing hard. Heart pounding.
Finally, in a small voice, she asked, “Why is it so easy for you to hurt me?”
She looked up at him, eyes glassy, voice trembling with something halfway between desperation and defiance.
“Does that make you feel better, Papa?” she whispered. “Powerful? Strong? When you hit the one person who just wanted to be loved by you?”
Gabriel’s face didn’t move. But something flickered in his eyes, maybe a flash of something too late to mean anything.
He said nothing.
And that silence was louder than any scream.
Chloe stood slowly, every muscle aching from more than just the blow. She looked at him one last time. Not for reconciliation.
Just confirmation.
He wasn’t going to stop her.
He never would.
In her bedroom, the tears came hard. Not just from the pain, but from the truth.
He didn’t love her the way she needed. Maybe he never would.
She packed a bag without looking back. ID. Credits. One change of clothes.
She left barefoot, the cool floor numbing the sting in her feet. Her cheek throbbed with each heartbeat.
No one followed her.
No one stopped her.
She didn’t look back.
Present
She was still staring at the glass in her hands when someone lingered at the bar longer than usual. A junior officer—engineering, she thought—young, affable, and just tipsy enough to forget himself.
He sipped at his second drink, leaned a little closer, then hesitated. His eyes flicked to her cheek, just for a moment.
“You ever…” he began, cautious, “…get that in a fight? The scar, I mean. Looks like you held your own.”
He said it like a joke. Light. Like maybe he regretted asking the second it left his mouth.
Chloe didn’t look up right away. She placed the glass down, slowly on the bar before finally meeting his gaze.
Her brown eyes were unreadable. Calm. Measured.
“Bad date,” she said with a soft smile. “Didn’t tip well either.”
He blinked, laughed nervously—uncertain if she was serious or not—then raised his glass in quiet apology and moved on.
She watched him go.
Then turned her back to the bar and took a breath. Her hands were shaking.
The lounge emptied gradually. Eventually, even the lights dimmed slightly, signalling the end of the night. Chloe was alone again, save for the quiet hiss of the replicator winding down and the faint music she’d left playing low, some old Terran jazz, soft and slow.
She reached up and touched the scar again. This time, she didn’t stop herself.
Her fingers brushed against the faint line just below her right cheekbone, nestled in the softness of her lightly tanned skin, barely noticeable under the lounge lighting. Framed by waves of long black hair, it was almost easy to pretend it wasn’t there. Almost.
She remembered packing that night. Throwing clothes into a bag with blood still drying on her face. Her mother’s silence. Her brothers’ stillness.
She’d expected someone to stop her. No one did.
She didn’t cry again until the door of the transport closed behind her.
She never went back.
Now, years later, on a starship hundreds of lightyears from home, she still hadn’t told anyone the truth.
The truth was ugly. Shameful. Heavy.
And Chloe de la Vega didn’t do heavy. Not in front of people.
She poured herself a drink she didn’t want and raised it in a silent toast to no one in particular.
“Here’s to scar tissue,” she murmured. “Doesn’t feel, doesn’t bleed… but it never bloody goes away.”
She downed it in one and wiped the glass clean with the towel still in her hand.
Then she smiled. It was flawless. Something easy, practised.
Because when the morning shift came in, she’d be back to the version of Chloe they all expected. The one with the quick wit, flirty charm, and steel in her spine.
A Post By
Chloe de la Vega
Owner, After 11, USS Pioneer
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