Flawed / Perfect. Cecelia Ahern

to happen, what I will see, what I will feel, which is apparently nothing, since they numb my skin, and how to treat my wounds afterwards. They hand me so many leaflets for aftercare services, therapy sessions, emergency hotlines, all branded with the Flawed branding. I sign some paperwork – quick, short agreements accepting all responsibility for what is about to occur – agreeing the Guild will not be held accountable if any of the brandings go wrong or if ill effects result down the line. It is discussed clinically, calmly, as though I’m going for a nose job.

      As I step out of the holding room and into the long, narrow corridor that leads to the Branding Chamber, I see Carrick sitting outside on the bench where we sat together, guarded by Funar. Funar has a sneer on his face, and I can tell he is happy about both my situation and the fact that Carrick will be forced to listen. Carrick will hear me scream. My family will hear me scream. I will scream.

      No. I will not let that happen. I will not allow them to do that to me. I will not scream.

      Feeling defiant, I believe this is the first time I have ever truly felt it. The first time on the bus was compassion, on the stand in court my admission was out of guilt and not bravery, but now I feel anger and I am defiant.

      Our eyes meet. His are strong, and I feel the effect of his stare.

      “I’ll find you,” he says suddenly, his voice deep and strong, and I’m surprised to hear him speak.

      I nod my thanks because I don’t trust myself to say anything. He fills me with the strength I need to enter the room without freaking out, mostly because I don’t want to lose it in front of him. My parents and Granddad are already seated behind the glass, as though they’re at the cinema waiting for the reel to begin, but their faces display the terror I feel. They do not want to view what they are about to see, but they are here so I don’t go through it alone. On seeing them, I think I would rather be alone, an unfamiliar feeling for me, who only ever wants to be surrounded by family. The excommunication from society is taking effect already within me, feeling detached from my family already, a stranger who can only go it alone.

      Mr Berry is here, too, which makes me uncomfortable, though I’m sure he must be here for legal reasons, and past the open door, around the corner, I know is Carrick. That gives me strength.

      Tina places me in the chair. It is like a dentist’s chair, nothing unusual apart from the fact that my body is bound to it – at my ankles, wrists, head and waist – so I can’t kick and flail as I’m seared. They want to get a clear symbol on my flesh for all time, the irony of a perfect Flawed symbol not lost on me. Tina is tender as she buckles the straps. I even sense a halt in sarcasm from June. Now is not the time for that. I’m getting what I deserve, the punishment speaking for them all.

      Bark is busy with the equipment, doing whatever he needs to do.

      The motorised chair reclines. I wince against the brightness of the ceiling lights. My skin feels hot as they shine on me, in the spotlight and centre stage for all to see. This is it.

      “It’s better not to look,” Tina whispers into my ear as she fastens the strap across my forehead. I cannot look now anyway; I can’t move.

      They inject my right hand first with the anaesthetic. It immediately numbs. Bark picks up the hot poker, and I see it, with its cast-iron F surrounded by a circle at the tip. My hand is flattened out and my fingers are strapped down, too, my hand forced open so that my palm is ready. It is done simply and quickly. No modern equipment, just a cast-iron poker and a count to three by Bark.

      “One, two …” Sear.

      I jump, but I can’t feel the pain. A sensation at most. And the smell of burning flesh, which makes me nauseated. I don’t scream. I won’t scream.

      “There’s a bucket here if you need it,” Tina says, by my side instantly like a midwife.

      I shake my head. I can hear the internal whimpering inside, see the burn on my open hand. The raw wound in my smooth skin. Four more times. It is the tongue I fear the most. I know they will leave this until last, they have told me that already, because it must be the worst.

      The skin on my right sole is injected with anaesthetic, and I lose all feeling instantly.

      Bark moves towards my foot. He looks at my ankle and frowns, seeing my anklet.

      “Where did you get this?” he asks.

      “Bark,” Tina snaps. “I let her keep it on. Keep moving.”

      “No … I … I just … it’s just that I made it. For a young man. For his girlfriend. He said she was perfect …” He looks at me, realising.

      I recall Art’s telling me when he gave me the anklet that a man at Highland Castle made it for him. Bark is the man who branded me perfect, and the same man who brands me Flawed. We share a long look.

      “Bark,” June says sternly.

      Bark is momentarily human as his sad eyes pass over mine, and then he snaps out of it.

      “Brace yourself,” Tina says gently, hand supportively on my shoulder.

      “One, two …” Sear.

      I can see my mum crying into a pile of tissues, her composure completely and utterly cracked, smashed and shattered. My dad is on his feet, pacing. A red-headed guard is near him, keeping a concerned eye on him, ready to step in if Dad crosses the mark. I can’t hear them, but they can hear me. It’s all part of the fear they place on the public. Let them hear my screams. Make a mistake, and you’ll end up like her.

      So far I haven’t made a sound, and I won’t.

      Bark’s hand comes into sight and injects my chest with the anaesthetic. Again, I’m numb. The red-hot poker comes towards me again. I can feel its heat. I feel the familiar squeeze of Tina and realise it has nothing to do with support and is merely procedure. She’s readying me, but by now I’m ready to pass out. The smell is unbearable. It is the smell of my own burning skin.

      I feel a blast of air. June has opened a window or something, must be to get rid of the smell of burning flesh. They’re not used to this. I can tell from the anxious looks on their faces. The average Flawed person receives one brand, rarely two. One man in the entire history received three, but never, ever five. I am the only person in the world to receive five. I feel dizzy, but I know I’m not moving. I close my eyes and squeeze tight.

      “One, two …” Sear.

      I feel like I can’t breathe. I haven’t felt the sting on my chest, but it’s as though psychologically I do. Pressure on my chest so immense I want to escape the constraints. I battle against them, still not making a sound. I refuse. The floor is moving. It’s rising upward. It’s going to hit me in the face.

      “Celestine? Celestine, are you okay?” I hear Tina, but I can’t focus on her, her face keeps moving. She’s saying something about the bucket, but I can’t concentrate. I keep thinking of the tongue. I see Clayton Byrne’s tongue as he coughs in my face. I don’t want my tongue to be seared.

      Tina tells me to take deep breaths.

      “This is too much for her,” Tina says worriedly to Bark, who surprisingly is viewing me with uncertainty, too. “We need to alert someone. Maybe take a break. Do the rest tomorrow.”

      “Guys, I know this is hard, but we have to do it,” June says in a low voice. “The longer we chat, the harder it is for her. Let’s not drag it out on her any more. The family is watching,” she adds with a whisper. “Let’s finish this for everybody’s sake.”

      An injection in my temple. Quicker this time.

      A squeeze on my shoulder. I know that for all time, if anyone squeezes me on the shoulder, it will be the trigger that brings me back to this.

      “One, two …” Sear.

      I gag. I retch. Smelling burning flesh. My own flesh.

      Bark is mumbling something.

      “Sweet