The Marked

Memories

-Hey guys! So I've begun talking with a fellow Wattpadder called @totorowritesbooks, and they have a story you should check out! It's called Death and his Flower, and it's a modern day love story about Hades and Persephone. They're a really supportive writer, so make sure to leave some positive comments and votes! Without further ado, let's get into the story.

Show them my. . . Mark? On my arm? I tensed at the thought of them seeing the scars that ran up and down my arms. I had developed a habit of avoiding looking at my own arms, washing them in the shower without a single peek at them, dressing with my eyes partially closed so as not to accidentally let my eyes land on them. I was terrified at the thought of seeing my own scar dotted arms, and now I had to show others?

They were all looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to show them. All except for Ryan, who had laid the controller down on the ground and turned to face me. Looking into his eyes, I saw a fierce protection in them, almost as if to say "I've got your back."

Mentally screaming, I placed my left hand on my sleeve, and slowly began to push it up. I watched in horrid fascination as inch after inch of my pale skin was exposed. The others didn't seem to notice my apprehension, all waiting excitedly to see what my Mark was.

First, I could see an inch above my wrist. No white dots of scar tissue yet, I thought. As I pushed it up another inch farther, however, I saw one. A perfect circle, almost like a drip of pale paint. My breath seized in my chest, and I stopped pulling up the sleeve of my hoodie. The others were puzzled for a second, and then Shea spoke.

"It's okay to be nervous, James. Whatever it is will fit you perfectly, trust us." I could feel the panic in my chest rising, and I looked to Ryan for help. His eyes were wide open as he stared back at me with concern, letting me know I didn't have to do this.

Memories of what Ms. Stents said came back to me, of how I was weak. Memories of flashing flames against my skin reminded me what lay beneath my cloth shield. Memories of how I had cried, and for the past two years avoided my own skin, terrified of it and what it reminded me of.

Ripping the sleeve up in a single, fluid move, I displayed my arm for the others to see. I heard gasps of surprise, and looked down to see nearly two dozen dots that ran up and down my arm. My own pale skin tried to swallow them back into me, hiding them, but it was no use. Perfect circles of misery lined my arm, and now the others could see for themselves what I had hidden even from myself.

For a moment, I didn't even see the Mark in the center of my forearm, too distracted by my mottled flesh. And then Tom gasped, and I knew the question would come, asking how I had received so much damage, and I wouldn't be able to answer, drowning in my memories.

"You still have the chickenpox scars, huh? Yeah, you had it bad. I still remember how we warned you not to scratch them, but you never were one to listen to others, huh?" I looked away from my arm and towards Ryan, who had spoken. I didn't understand what he was talking about at first, but then it hit me.

He's trying to give me an excuse for these scars, and a really good one at that. I smiled gratefully at him, and tried my best to answer in a steady voice. "Yeah, they're still here. I try not to advertise my own mistakes too much, so I've been keeping them under wraps. Literally and metaphorically." Just this once, I thought to myself, just this once I'll lie.

The others laughed a bit at that, and Tom was the first to question me on my Mark. "So, what do you think?" Looking back down at it, I tried to ignore my scars and understand what I was seeing. It looked like two circles, separated by a thick line. Glancing at the others, I saw that Mike was staring at it in astonishment.