Burned But Unbroken

Chapter 6 — The Cameras

The car door opened and daylight struck Freya's eyes. It was hard and white. Noise followed at once—voices layered on voices, metal rails, the thud of feet. She kept her head down. The brim of her hat cut the sky into a thin line. Her limbs were heavy from the drug. Her mind was clear enough to know she did not want this.

Jackson unfolded the wheelchair and lifted her into it. Metal clicked. A belt crossed her lap; another slid around her chest. Then he pushed toward the stone steps and the entrance with the flags.

Reporters waited on both sides. Microphones reached forward. People shouted her name.

“Ms. Larson! Over here!"

“Freya, is your sister standing in?"

“Take off the mask!"

“Were you burned in the fire?"

The questions kept coming. Flashes opened and shut. White spots swam under her sunglasses. Shame rose and stayed.

Jackson lifted a hand. “Give her space," he said in a smooth voice. He did not slow. The wheels rattled over the stone.

A reporter called, “If she is fine, let her lift the hat. One second." Another said, “Why bring her here if she is fragile?"

Freya shook her head. The strap held her. Her hands gripped the armrests. The leather creaked. Tears came without her permission.

Jackson bent close. “One second," he whispered. “Only a tilt. If we refuse, they'll say it is worse. They'll blame Olivia. Help me stop that." His hand reached for the brim.

Freya turned away. The small front wheel met a shallow crack. The chair tipped. The hat slid. The sunglasses dropped to the bridge of her nose. The mask snapped loose. Her shoulder and hip hit the ground. Pain lit up the places already hurt.

For a breath, the crowd went quiet. Then the flashes returned, faster. People gasped. Some stepped closer.

Freya brought her hands to her face. She was too late. The new lines of her skin were in the open—tight seams, stiff patches, tender edges. Tears burned. The stone was cold under her palm. A shoe moved into her view as someone leaned for a better angle.

“Back up!" Jackson shouted, voice breaking. “Give her room." He crouched, hand hovering. He did not know where to touch.

She looked for the hat, the sunglasses, the mask. They lay apart on the steps. Her world became those three things and the small space of air she could pull into her lungs. She crawled to the hat. The movement was slow because everything hurt. A shadow fell across the brim. She pulled her hands back to cover her face again.

Security guards pushed the crowd one step away. The space was narrow but enough. Noise dropped a little. Freya put the hat on with shaking fingers. She slid the sunglasses into place. She pulled up the mask. The shame did not. People had seen. That fact sat inside her like a stone.

Jackson helped her back into the chair. “May I lift you?" he asked. She nodded. He fastened the strap and pushed. The overhang near the door softened the light. The noise dulled.

“Freya! Will Olivia exchange the rings?" someone shouted.

“Did your sister cause the fire?" another called.

“Are you disfigured for life?"

The words landed hard. Freya kept her gaze on her knees. She did not answer. Tears slid under the sunglasses and dampened the top edge of the mask. She let them fall.

They crossed the threshold. The hallway inside was dim and cool. Venue staff waited with careful faces. One reached for the chair. “This way," he said.

Freya stared at the floor tiles and the scuffs left by other wheels. She put one hand on the belt and felt its plain texture.

They turned a corner into a side room. A chair stood against the wall. A small table held water and cups. The door closed and made an honest sound.

Jackson knelt in front of her. “I'm sorry," he said. “I didn't want that to happen."

Freya was shaking. Anger and shame sat together in her chest. She wiped under the sunglasses. The motion hurt. She did it anyway. In her mind she saw the towel over the mirror, the nurse who always asked before touching anything, and the rule she had made: she would not be put on display.

“It was the wheel," Jackson said. “If you had let me lift the hat for one second, they would have calmed down."

“Do not say that to me," she said. Her voice was low and even. She looked at her scraped palms. A thin line of blood crossed a knuckle.

Jackson saw it and flinched. “We can still fix the day," he said. “You can sit in the back. Olivia will handle the rings. No one will come near you."

“No," she said. The answer came at once.

“People are waiting," he said. “Both families are here. If you don't appear, there will be more trouble."

“There is already trouble," she said. “It is on every camera. I will not add more."

He pressed his lips together. “At least allow Olivia—"

“No," she said again. She did not argue law, duty, or image. She had been exposed without consent. That was enough to end the discussion.

A staff member opened the door a crack. “Ten minutes," he said to Jackson, then glanced at Freya and looked away quickly. “Do you need a medic?"

“I need quiet," Freya said. It was true. Help would mean more hands and more eyes. Quiet would let her breathing return to normal.

The man nodded and left.

Jackson rested his hands on his knees. He looked at the floor, at her, at the door. “They will say you are unstable," he said. “They will say you ran."

“They can say what they want," she said. “They already took what they came for."

“You will regret this," he said softly.

She thought of the cold stone against her cheek, the bursts of light, the way strangers' eyes felt like knives. She thought of the strap that held her while the crowd demanded more. “I will not regret choosing myself," she said.

Her hands steadied. The shame did not vanish, but it stopped growing. It became a weight she could stand under. She put both feet flat on the footrests. The small change felt like a claim.

Jackson stood. “I have to go out there," he said. “I will tell them you need rest." He hesitated. “Olivia will still complete the formality."

“Do what you want," she said. “I am not attending."

He waited for a softening that did not come. Then he left.

Freya stayed where she was. She listened to her breath. She held the hat with one hand until the tremor was gone. She did not go to a mirror.

She focused on one clear fact: she had said no and meant it. The word felt clean inside her, like a post set in firm ground. It would not move if someone leaned on it. Outside, the crowd still shouted. Inside, she took another slow breath that belonged only to her.