THE BIRTH MARK
Nurse Sharon's Pov.
I was so tired but I didn't voice a complaint. My magic might be expending my energy to reduce her pain, but she had been in labour for hours. There was no way that what she was feeling still wasn't excruciating.
Mrs Margaret would not forget today in a hurry. She’d been crying, screaming, cursing and pushing all day. It's a miracle she hasn't torn. And everything we wanted to do a C-section, the baby would tease it's coming.
“Push, Mrs. Margaret,” Doctor Mosby urged, his tone calm but firm. “You're almost there, I promise.”
The blinding hospital lights bore down on all of us — three nurses and the doctor, as she clutched the sides of the bed, her cries echoing in the sterile room.
Mrs. Margaret clenched her teeth, her entire body trembling with exhaustion. She let out one final, agonizing scream and delivered the baby. The room was filled with the sound of a newborn’s cries, bringing tired smiles to everyone's faces.
“All right, congratulations— it’s a baby girl,” the doctor announced, holding up the tiny infant now swaddled in a blanket.
Mrs Margaret’s head lolled to the side as she struggled to catch her breath, her hair plastered to her forehead. When the doctor stepped closer to show her the baby’s face, she lifted her head weakly, only to recoil in disgust.
I blinked in surprise. Of the range of emotions I expected, this was not one of them.
“What the hell?” Margaret spat, her voice sharp and horrified. “What is that thing? Throw her out.”
We all froze, taken aback by her reaction. As far as I saw the baby was human and even complete too. “Mrs. Patterson, it’s—”
“I said throw her out!” Margaret shrieked, her voice breaking.
I exchanged a horrified glance with my colleagues before gently taking the crying baby from him.
Down the hallway, Doctor Mosby approached Mr Richard Patterson, her husband, who had been pacing outside the room. He looked up as the doctor cleared his throat, the newborn still crying softly in my arms as I cooed at her.
“Mr. Patterson, your wife finds the baby… undesirable,” the doctor began carefully. “She doesn’t want her.”
Mr Richard’s eyes narrowed as he took a step closer, leaning in to get a good look at the infant’s face. The faint light in the hallway illuminated the large, irregular scar-like birthmark that spanned almost the entirety of the side of her face.
He let out a frustrated sigh, shaking his head. “I can’t blame her. Who’s going to want a scar-faced kid like this? Take her to an orphanage or something,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “We’ll make another.”
I stood frozen, holding the child as tears welled up in my eyes. What was wrong with this couple? She was a perfectly healthy baby, their baby, and they didn't want her just because of a fucking scar?
Before I could protest, a voice rang out from further down the hallway. “Give her to me!”
Mrs Linda Patterson, Richard’s mother, stepped forward with a determined expression. Her sharp eyes softened as she looked at the crying baby in my arms. Without hesitation, she reached out and cradled the infant against her chest. I swallowed my words as I saw the first bits of tenderness in the eyes of this child's family.
“Poor thing,” she murmured, brushing a gentle hand over the baby’s tiny hair. “You’re coming with me to the countryside.”
Oh thank God. I didn't know what cruel stroke of fate led her to be born to such parents but at least she would have her grandmother.
“That birthmark…” Mrs Linda mused. Her voice grew softer, almost as if she were speaking to the baby alone. “It’s going to vanish the moment you find your true love, you know. I promise.”
With that, she turned and walked away, as the sound of the baby’s cries faded into the distance, leaving a faint trail of Magic that was mine. I think Mrs Linda is a wielder.
No matter. That was odd though. What did she—
“Doctor! Sharon!” Nurse Tabby screamed, rushing out of the delivery room. “We're losing her!”
-
Valerie's Pov
Father's office is the last place I need to clean today before doing laundry.
I clutch my broom and dustpan tighter. I've been waiting for them to leave all day, but I can no longer put it off. I walk in, bracing myself for any remark they'll make about me.
“— ready, sweetheart,” Mother says, her voice as sugary as syrup, “Mr. Hills will be here any moment.”
The second they see me, I feel like I shouldn’t have come. Their faces sour instantly, like I'm a rotten smell, and I feel malice radiating from their stare. Had I done something wrong besides the whole being born thing?
“Find a room and lock her in it,” Father barks at the bodyguard standing outside by the open door.
“What?” I stammer, freezing in place. What's going on?
“We’re having a visitor and we don't have the time to deal with you before he gets here. That will have to be later,” Mother adds coldly, and fear makes me recoil.
“You, now!” Father yells. “Under no circumstances are you to let her out.”
I don't have time to protest before the bodyguard grabs me by the arm. The last time I was locked away was for breaking Mother's teacup. For the whole three days, I didn't get a drop of water. “Wait, please! I haven’t done anything…”
“Quiet,” the bodyguard orders, his grip tightening as he pulls me out of the room
“Let go of me!”
I struggle against his hold but it's of no use. He’s strong, and he roughly yanks me all the way to the storage room at the end of the hall where he tosses me in and locks the door. My head mercifully crashes against a throw pillow and not the glass clock right beside it.
I sigh, sitting on a couch. At least I'd be a little comfortable this time. This storage room is used to keep pieces from the second, more opulent, living room right next door.
As I stare blankly out of the window, a strange tingle pricks my face again. It has been a little itchy all day, even after I took a bath this morning. It must be some sort of rash. I haven't had time to even check it out all morning.
My fingers touch the raised edges of my scar. When I was living with Grandma I didn't call it a scar. I called it a birthmark. I didn't even really refer to it all that much.
Yes, it was there and yes, it made me look different but it was still just a face.
As I touch my face, looking for a rash, I notice something. The scar feels different, its width. . . smaller?
Rooting around the room, I find a decorative mirror stashed behind some paintings. Staring into the mirror, my breath catches in my throat.
Is it actually smaller?
The whole bottom part of my face is unmarked skin and I can even see pale skin peeking out, right beneath my hairline.
As I keep staring at myself wondering if I'm delusional, wondering if I wanted it gone so bad that I started making it recede in my head, I hear the door to the next room open.
And then my father says, his voice
sure even though it's muffled, “You're right Margaret. It is about time we got rid of that Valerie.”