❝ honestly, i thought i would be dead by now. ❞
(l/n) (y/n) is a contradiction. she's strong, yet stoical. powerful, yet subtle. insistent, yet quiet. awkward, yet charming. maybe that's why a lot of people got their attention on her.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤcom...
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What is a scar?
Biologically, it's an area of skin that has regenerated. The fibers and tissues are still there, or else regrow, but they don't get put back together exactly like they should have been. Instead, things get jumbled and mixed up.
Some writer once said that we're stronger in the broken places after we heal. Something like that. In any event, (Y/N) thinks that she's in a position to refute that claim.
Scars aren't particularly vulnerable; they don't hurt. It's not an injury anymore, after all— it's an area of difference. It's an area fully healed but never quite the same.
When you think of scars what would you think? A patch of skin that stood out than the rest. A wound that has been closed and yet the mark of it was still there.
Scars are what most people call ugly. Something that they want to be removed from their bodies.
Understandable.
Who would like something so ugly on them? The kind that would stand out among the rest and make people look at you weirdly.
(Y/N) should get used to it. Somehow. Actually, she didn't know if she ever could.
There are times whenever she looked at herself in the mirror, all she could think about was how different her face looked, how extremely flawed it was now.
She knows that it's utterly stupid to complain about it, considering that there are much bigger problems in her life than a huge stupid scar that occupied almost the half of her face.
She also knows all about that bullshit of, "scars being marks of bravery that carry a story along them".
And she thinks it's dumb.
She doesn't think of it as a token of pride, showcasing the hard-earned battle that was brandished with victory. It's a nice idea— but she's not naive.
There's no sparks of joy or awe in it at all.
A huge scar on her face.
Rays of light dance across her skin accompanied with the dark shadow of her hand. She traced the outline lightly, always lightly, some part of her was afraid that it would cave in.
Same ugly, angry edges. It's big, stretching across her skin. It looks even more painful, the shade darker red than the last, almost violent, harsh against the perfect expanse of her face.
The memory is worse too, vivid in her head.
(Y/N) had held the blade, she remembers it hacking through her flesh, the sound of her skin ripping echoing in her head.
Her scar always reminded her of the despair she felt back then when the bullet latched onto her skin; the horror, and the rage.
It reminded her of the notion of the tearing of her cheek, the blood rushing and pooling, the pure pain she felt, physically and emotionally, when she ruined her face.
