the art of letting go

seven - defenceless

the art of being defenceless

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Scars.

A scar is a mark left on or within the body after a wound has not healed entirely. The lack of completion in the healing process causes fibrous connective tissue to develop, closing the gap and leaving a permanent reminder of what occurred. People romanticize scars everyday: in music, in films, in books. A tale of survival. A secret roadmap of an individual's personal history. Some wounds heal without scars, without a reminder of the damage that occurred. Even when the body heals, the pain still lingers regardless of whether there is a mark or not. Scars itch and irritate and they're stuck, forever. It's hard to wear your own skin when it's marred with taunting memories that have the ability to render you breathless. Reminders of nights filled with shrieks, and blood, and pain.

I've always envied individuals that can look at their scars as a mark of strength or survival.  I've always thought that how they make you feel says a lot about who you are as a person. The savages from the sweethearts. I've always strived to be a force that nobody could dare touch. I've always strived to remind people that they will not win, that I would not give up until my heart stopped beating. Confidence was never something that I needed to feign.

It's the scars that aren't visible that tend to cause the most pain.

When Jakob Weber clawed at my skin, hissed vows of revolt into my ear, I'd never felt quite as weak before as I did in that moment. The moment where your lifelong fight mode switched to flight. The moment the adrenaline peaked so high that all other rational processes stopped.

Sometimes, even in LA and London, I could still feel his touch on my skin. It's embedded so deep within my bones that I'm petrified that I'll never be able to dig it out.

Seeing his face again after so long had the ability to make my skin itch. A desperate urge to draw my fingernails over the organ consumed my mind, my throat clogging up as I wanted to run.

But I was never one to burn out quietly.

There's a lot of anger there, untouched remains that have spent years festering into something deadly. A touch of panic, the sharp bite of a snake that left a scar so deep that I doubted it'd ever be truly eradicated.

What I hadn't taken into account, however, was the presence of other people. The night in the alley behind the boxing gym was spent in complete solitude. I was alone.

As much as my brain tried to tell me otherwise, I wasn't alone anymore.

Within seconds, Brayden had Jakob Weber up against the wall a few steps away from me. His fingers curled around Jakob's neck, a loud yelp escaping the man as he got pinned down.

"Bro, what the f-"

"You think it's funny to talk to a woman like that?" Brayden snapped, visibly tightening his grip as he stared at Jakob. Jakob levelled his stare but didn't make a move to fight back, knowing that it'd attract more unwarranted attention than it was worth. "Do you think that's okay? To talk about her as if she's some fuckin' object? Something for you?"

A few eyes were on us but they kept their distance. Brayden looked so different when he was angry and it was a sight that I'd only seen twice before, a long time ago. The boy was always so carefree, so gentle.

That is all gone now.

His ocean eyes narrowed, lips curling into a scowl. Jakob's eyes widened and that's when I knew he was well aware of how much he'd fucked up because the calm and collected Brayden Harper had snapped.