Scar Stories

Right Eye:


When you're five-years-old, the whole world is a game. Candle wax is lava and you are the ice queen who can calm it's burn. The swimming pool is the deepest ocean you'll ever swim.  And the hardwood floor of your best friend's living room is a ginormous ice rink. You slip down to just your socks and hold Baby Brother's hand and spin and spin. Then he lets go, and your feet give out beneath you.


And just like in every game, there's danger. A spell, a demon, or just an unfortunately placed table. One slip, one slice, and you're given a permanent reminder that while you're dreams are big, you're still human and you can, in fact, bleed.


Right Wrist:

When you're twelve-years-old, you're far to obsessed with your looks. It's because everything is changing. When the hell did you grow tits? Is that what a waist looks like? And, holy shit, what the fuck is that on your wrist?! That bulb - that thing. That's definitely not supposed to be part of the maturation process... No, you're just special, in that absolutely ridiculous 'your-body-misplaces-fluids' kind of way.


Anesthesia, intravenous fluids, and the only thing unique about you is the neat little line along the natural curve of your hand.

Right Hip (pretty messed up pattern going on now) and Left Collarbone:

You were seventeen when someone first complimented you on your beauty marks. He said all the big stars had beauty marks, like Marilyn Monroe (he also said he was related to her, but you don't know if you believe him anymore). It was a sign that you were meant for greatness, something far bigger than your small town. You were also seventeen when a doctor first introduced you to the "c" word. More anesthesia, more scalpels, more stitches.

The tests come back clean, but the stitches on your hip pull, leaving this ugly half-dollar mass of too-shiny skin. One more reminder that something beautiful has the power to destroy you.