Contrite

three » s c a r s

"Deadly

What is more deadly, a gun or a thought?

A gun gives you the opportunity

But a thought pulls the trigger." — Unknown.

»»»

Octavia

       Closing the door behind me, I lock it before turning to look at the shower in front of me. It's like every other hospital bathroom. A baby blue curtain covers the shower, a handle beside it attached to the wall. Across from the shower is a toilet and beside it is a sink, a rectangular mirror sitting on top of the sink. Sighing, I walk over to the toilet and sit down on it before slowly taking off my bandage around my ankle. I set the bandage down before turning my ankle around, looking at it. It's a little swollen but other than that, it feels fine. I take the brace off my knee, touch it softly and look at the dark bruises around the area. At least, I didn't break a bone, surprisingly. I stand again, moving in front of the mirror.

       Standing before the sink, I move my shoulders slowly, tilting my head to the side and looking at myself in the mirror. Dark, curly, messy hair sits on my shoulders and I look at my face, seeing the faint outline of a bruise around my left eye, a faint pink cut on my right eyebrow and healing scratches on my cheekbones and jawline. I touch them softly, my fingers tracing my scratches lightly and I tilt my head up. My hand feels my throat, where I've been strangled, and saw no dark bruises or hand prints. They must have healed, too. My hand moves down and I feel the beginning of the white bandages wrap around my chest.

       Grabbing it, I unwrap myself from the bandages, grunting quietly under my breath. The white bandages fell beside my feet and I roll my shoulders, looking at my bare chest.

       My jaw clenches.

       There's a mark on my shoulder, where the bullet hit me. It's healed, but the mark will always be there. I touch it softly before looking at the two-inch scar on my side, remembering when I got impaled and stitched up before I could bleed out. I shudder at the thought of the sharp pole ripping apart skin and being inside of me. My fingers lightly touch my scar and I feel my ribs softly. They press against my skin, reminding me of how much weight I've lost.

       How much I've changed in the course of two months. . .

       Heart beating softly under my chest, I grab my basketball shorts and pull them down, along with my underwear. Stepping out of them, I stand nude in front of the mirror. I ruffle my hair and pull it away from my face, then look back to the mirror.

       Swallowing slowly, and nodding to myself for slight encouragement, I turn around to look at my back, my head turning so I can see.

       I gasp in horror and shock.

       Many scars, small and big, decorate my back. There are so many, from small sizes to huge ones. It's too much. There's too many scars for one to bear.

       My fingers touch the beginning of a scar that stretches from my shoulder down to my hip. My fingers has started to shake as I trace my scars, a lump forming in my throat when I look at them.

       I pull my fingers away from my scars and look away.

       I blink, once, twice, three times. I blink the tears away.