The sound of a metal tray striking the floor echoed through the packed mess hall at Fort Bragg.
Two hundred pairs of eyes turned toward a small female recruit bending to collect the scattered utensils. She stood perhaps five feet four inches tall, thin inside a stiff new uniform, with brown hair pulled into a regulation bun.
It was not her size that made everyone stare.
It was the scars.
They began near her neck and continued down her right arm. Long trails of pale pink and silver-white tissue crossed her skin, some thick as rope and others branching like tree roots.
Under the harsh fluorescent lights of the mess hall, the marks seemed almost to glow.
“Look at that,” a voice boomed from the corner table where several confident male recruits sat. “Frankenstein’s bride just joined the Army.”
Laughter erupted.
It was not quiet laughter. It was loud, careless, and cruel enough to fill the entire cafeteria.
The woman’s name tag read REEVES.
She did not look up. She placed the tray back onto the counter, although her hands trembled slightly.
The server behind the line avoided her eyes and quickly spooned food onto her plate.
“Seriously, what happened?” another recruit called. “Did you lose a fight with a lawn mower?”
More laughter followed.
Several recruits looked uncomfortable. A few shook their heads, but nobody challenged the voices from the corner.
Reeves accepted her tray and turned around.
Her shoulders were narrow, and her head remained lowered. Every part of her posture seemed to say the same thing.
Do not look at me.
Do not notice me.
A drill sergeant seated three tables away glanced up from his meal. He observed the exchange but did not intervene.