Pain is my ever present friend.

Some days it whispers to me. Other days, it roars in my face, slicing its flaming claws down the path he carved into my skin now healed.

Most of the time, I welcome it as it reminds me of the path I am on that I committed to seeing to the end. I would hand over my soul to the devil if it meant I could look into his eyes as my retribution marked his skin and cleaved the screams I was owed for what he did to me.

Today, it is almost unbearable as I crouch in the shadows being drenched by the freezing rain. Pain screams in my head, a growing throb in my body pushing against any qualm I might have at what I am about to do.

The droplets trail down the silver stripes of where his knife dug into my skin two years ago, a path that began at the corner of my brow down to my neck and ended at my navel.

The wind pushes against my soaked coat forcing it to cling to my skin. A chill crawls its fingers up my back leaving goosebumps along its path.

My knuckles turn white around the cold hilt of my blade that I clutch at my side.

My onyx eyes never leave him, not since I began trailing him a few hours ago after connecting with a source who had informed me they had found him in the city two days ago. I’ve been hiding in the shadows of the city as he has met with people in various cafes and restaurants.

I watch from across the street as he drinks at the bar, entirely unaware that I stalked him in the darkness that blankets me.

My lips curl as I watch him enjoying himself and my shoulders tighten the longer I lay in wait as the reasons why I was here refused to be quiet in my mind.

It’s been two years since he kept me trapped in a basement as he tortured me for his own sick enjoyment. I spent weeks enduring the mental and physical pain he inflicted on me before he drugged me and left me unconscious and bleeding in a park. Some kind samaritan found me and I found myself waking in a hospital bed covered in bandages and shaking as the memories assaulted me on an unfailing loop. As soon as I was released from the hospital, I had trouble reintegrating into society. The fear of being found by him again kept me home and the memories of all I endured had the walls caving in on me. After a tear-filled night where I drowned it all in a bottle that I emptied, I realized I would never be safe until he was dead. So I forced myself into a gym to strengthen my body and soon after I learned fighting techniques and how to wield weapons.

I will never be weak or afraid again.

Most would have become shells of themselves after an experience like I had gone through. Instead I made my heart steel and focused entirely on my revenge. It kept me going and the pain that ravaged my body led me to this moment tonight.

He hands a card over to the bartender and stands up. I mirror his movement.

Shoving his arms into his jacket sleeves he then shifts the hood over his face, before heading out in the rain unaware of the shadow behind him.

I steady my breathing as I cling to the darkness, remaining a healthy distance away to not lose him and careful to not step on trash that would crinkle or crunch beneath my feet.

We walked, hunter and prey, down nearly empty streets as the rain poured out in the sky’s anguish.

After thirty minutes of treading through the flooding streets, his path eventually leads us to the marina where he sits down on a bench overlooking the roiling water.

Pausing, I glance around to assess the environment. It was a strange place for him to sit and the first time all day that he was alone.

My brows furrow as I consider this while the waves spray salt in the air.

I will kill him for what he did to me, there wasn’t a doubt in my mind on this. I had never taken a life before, but I refuse to consider any other option. The real question is if now was the best opportunity for this or if I should hold off given how open the space was and because I don’t know if someone is meeting him here. It was possible this was a meet up and if I pressed forward in my plan I could be caught red handed.

Not wanting to hesitate further, I push forward through the downpour and whip my blade through the air to his neck from behind him. A flash of lighting glints off the steel as the raindrops ping against it.

I hold it firm against him. “Don’t move or you’ll regret it.” I whisper into his ear as I feel his breathing increase.

Keeping my blade steady, I pivot around him and the bench, keeping the blade biting his skin.

A saccharine grin pulls my skin taut as I face him.

Finally.

“You.” he whispers as his eyes go wide at the realization of who held his life in their hands.

“Me.”

My heart pounds in tandem with the rainfall and my grin grows wider.

This moment is what I have longed for, dreamed of, and planned for years now. Its finally within my grasp and I won’t waste a moment on a speech or to draw out his pain though he deserves it. I can either claim my revenge now and live with the stain on my shriveled heart or I could walk away forever regretting not taking it and living in constant fear.

A pang grips my stomach as I realize the severity of the decision I have to make right now.

My jaw clenches and I narrow my eyes at him as I make my choice not caring about the consequences.

He dies now.

In one swift movement of my wrist, I swipe my blade across his neck and blood spills out over the hand he rushes to the wound trying to seal it.

Taking a step back, almost tripping over my own feet, I watch as the life slowly leaves him. My heart slowing alongside him.

As his eyes go vacant, laughter bubbles up inside me.

It’s done.

A scratch A scab A scar In how I got it Well im clumsy Or Thats what I say I don’t I know the real reason On how I get my scars But I get one every year

I heard the reason Is from when I was an infant Thyroid problems Caused some muscle development issues It’s not my fault But sometimes it feels like it They say I get cause I don’t have full control I don’t know to be honest I am not a doctor But I know without my issue I would of never discovered My love for books

With each scar I get I always tell a funny story A pencil Or I tripped on a rope Fell on cement Even a Christmas tree A scratch from my dog Or a blister pop Or getting my head glued At such a young age All of which is true With more to tell

Each scar I get It’s a story That I love to tell But I have more than Physical scars Emotional to Not from my home But the way I was treated from Kindergarten to 6 grade But I moved on Lives my life And now I am happy Each scar I get now I am glad I got them It’s shows who I am As a person I don’t shy away from showing them I embrace them They are never going away So why try

One Two Three Four Five Six scars Just one more It won’t hurt anything At night the scars come out Get evaluated And end up getting more companions To then do that process all over again the next night With the cold sharp blade That solves all the problems Just for those quick moments of adrenaline Everything goes away I can’t stop Not because of an wacky opposing force Because I don’t want to Some part of a scar always has to be there To be noticed Cause I’m not fine

The fractals first appear an hour after the strike, like the pristine edges of snowflakes stained into skin.

There was a storm. The thunder made the house shake.

Running down her arms like rivers, they branch out into smaller and smaller segments. Nature’s tattoos, the fossil of an electric charge.

The phone rung, quivering in its hook on the wall.

Lightning’s flowers, the nurse calls them. Lichtenburg scars. Beautiful red ferns with blister blooms that burn so brightly she forgets her own name.

Her sister said she would call at six thirty. She promised to answer.

Ruby_ _roots, painted across her shoulder. Cracks in the bubbling skin that feels like it might just melt all the way off.

She picked up the phone. Its cord jittered like static. __ Her eyes can barely focus, the scars’ stinging is so sharp. Like hot hoarfrost clinging to her body. Every second is another eternity—she wonders if she will ever truly heal.

_And in a flash, her mind went white. _

Ash looked down at her hands. It had been centuries since she devoted her mind, body, and soul to Blaze. She had done it for Mara- her best friend. She had done if for her two wonderful children. She thought Blaze would bring Mara back to life once she joined him. She thought the power she would get from joining him would let her be able to protect her children. She was wrong. He pulled her away from her friends and family and didn’t do shit to bring Mara back. He changed Ash in ways she could never have imagined. She felt numb. It had all started when she walked into that fire, taller than a house, and finally pledged herself to Blaze. That’s how she got the scares that painted her body. There were burn scares scaling up and down her hands, arms, torso, legs, neck, and face. She didn’t care, though. Not anymore. Anymore she didn’t seem to care about anything at all.

A scritch a scratch a little mark

A dimple a pimple a dot

A scar A bruise a permanent tear

Purple blue green

Was it a cat Was it a car Was it another person

Did you fall Did you amke a mistake Did you break your arm on a date

A scar is a scar Beautiful and bruised You are ok

A scar is a scar and I still love you Scars in all

TW: c-section trauma

A shiny line crossed her lower abdomen, jagged and dark. The width varied, created by an uncertain scalpel. She dragged a finger along the uneven crease, her nail indenting further. The skin of her stomach seemed to push back, jarring her sliding finger, sticking every few millimeters. The scar felt fragile. Thin. As if it wouldn’t take much pressure to slice her open again. 

She shuddered at the memory, pulling away her shaking hand and her drifting thoughts. She moved it instead to rest on the swaddle of her sleeping baby and her surroundings came back into focus. She could feel the coarse park bench through her thin, flowing skirt. The sky was clear and the sun warmed the parts of her it hit through the fluffy deciduous branches, a slight breeze reminding the people it passed that it won’t be this warm for much longer. She took a deep breath, smelling the gyro place on the corner and soaking in the sounds of older children playing in the grass. She could feel their desperate hold on the summer. The growing wildness of children can never tame the passing of time. 

She glanced down at her baby, sound asleep in his tram, locked in place beside her. He had gotten so big already. Her other hand absently, gently, rubbed her stomach. She huffed at her automatic pull to engage with the moments of his birth. She felt drawn to her undoing, to the reminder of the day she was split open and ripped apart. There was no escaping these thoughts. There hadn’t been for months.

No one can prepare you for the moment your plans dissolve, where one minute you’re laying in a warm hospital bed, waiting patiently for the doctor to tell you it’s time to push so you can meet your beloved baby… then the next minute alarms are going off and you’re being rushed away on a rattling cart to a cold room, aware enough that something is not right, but not conscious enough to scream. Her reality had been ripped away from her so suddenly, just like her baby had been ripped from her womb. She remembered vaguely seeing her husband’s panicked face, the one where he thinks he’s being reassuring but there is clearly terror coming through his eyes.

She took a staggered deep breath, bringing herself to that park bench once again. Her fingers tapped the top of her thumb, alternating stimulus to ground her.

_Pointer–ring–middle–pinky, pointer–ring–middle–pinky. _

Her therapist had told her to take moments like these and delve into the emotion when she could, when she felt safe, to process the feeling instead of repressing it. The last, and only time, she had indulged so recklessly, her husband had found her curled up in a freezing bath, unable to remove herself from the water she had drawn hours prior. 

_Pointer–ring–middle–pinky, pointer–ring–middle–pinky. _

Her limbs had stopped responding after she revisited in her mind the surgery she never wanted to have, the sensation of her entire body going slack, of being dragged under involuntarily because her body had failed her and so medicine had to intervene, all the while mentally clawing toward a consciousness she would not obtain on her own. 

Pointer–ring–middle–pinky, pointer–ring–middle–pinky.

She had remembered the sound of her own pleading, her endless cries turned to shrieks, as she felt nearly every part of what happened to her body. No one else could recall this, of course, because she was unconscious on an operating table. Silent and unmoving.

Pointer–ring–middle–pinky, pointer–ring–middle–pinky.

She hadn’t slept for what felt like weeks, either due to having a newborn or the recurring night terrors that racked her entire being with a similar level of agony to the original event. Therapists and therapies, medications and treatments, were all a whirlwind as her husband desperately tried to find a wisp of the woman he married. Weeks of torment turned to months of hard work and healing. She was much better now.

Pointer–ring–middle–pinky, pointer–ring–middle–pinky. __

“An emergency c-section due to complications” they could not fully explain. Her eyelids fluttered as her fingers moved faster, the grip with her other hand tightening ever so slightly around the up and down of his steady, deep breathing. She took a moment to match his breaths until she could feel her heartbeat and fingers slow. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Once she felt stable, she gently settled both of her hands on the tops of her thighs, palms up, open and inviting to the energy of the light around her. She again grounded herself, rubbing her fingertips this time against the sleeve ends of her buttery soft sweater.

An abyss floated directly under her, threatening to swallow everything that might have once been her. But for now, she was again present, alive, and a mother.

I touch it. Grazing it back and forth with my thumb. It’s a line. Abrupt and slightly distracting. In the dark I can mistake it for a line of muscle. It’s a shadow rather than a real thing. It’s a line rather than an indentation.

If I close my eyes I can imagine a babe. A few days old. Pink with brand newness. Smaller than my stomach it was cut on. I can not hear me cry because I don’t think I did. I can see me in my mothers arms and my dad’s concerned face.

What I wish never to see is me as my mother. Holding my own daughter in the same way. With the same line across her stomach and the same look on my husband’s face. What I want and what god wants… is hopefully one in the same.

But when I dance at night. Freshly bathed and smelling sweet. It’s a shining wave that touches me.

For most of his life, The Pirate engaged in risky behavior. All bets were off when you raced up behind a moving vessel, some with anti-piracy protection like nets, water cannons, or even armed guards. A slip or a fall could lead to instant death. A wrong choice could lead to being hung up and maimed and instant death. The work of an assault rifle aimed at you could lead to bullets and instant death. In all, it was a lot of short-lived bad experiences that added up to death. It was a dangerous work environment.

Despite loving every minute of the thrill, both The Wench and The Captain grew increasingly alarmed by The Pirate's thrill-seeking behavior. As he voyaged into his early teens, both parents, no strangers to the danger themselves, suddenly grew more cautious. The Wench herself oddly became the protective mother.

For one particularly dangerous boarding, The Wench finally put her foot down. There was no way in hell she would let The Pirate go with The Captain on this one. And while he begged, pleaded, and eventually threw a fit not worthy of the maturity of his thirteen years plying the high seas in the family's criminal endeavors, The Wench was not budging. When she had come to a decision, no one overruled The Wench. At almost five feet, she was tiny but terrifying when angry. So, The Captain gathered the crew and set off without his son. The whole adventure went according to plan.

That was not the same experience for The Pirate. While at home and looking for some way to alleviate his boredom, he had been hanging out with his friends in town. A driver lost control of his vehicle, and The Pirate was pinned to the wall at his favorite Pho place. The damage was severe, and he had lost his right forearm. What were the odds?

The Wench had made the decisions she had made for all the right motherly reasons. And neither The Pirate nor The Captain had ever blamed her. What were the odds that it would happen? But The Wench never forgave herself. In trying to keep The Pirate from danger, he had been hurt worse than anyone in The Crew had ever imagined.

The scar ran from upper left side of my forehead to just below my right eye and had sunken deeply into my skin with a burning sensation. It was blood red and made it so I was unable to open my right eye now. Probably for the better, that way both my eyes to have to witness this hideous scar every time I saw my relation.

For weeks now, dark shadows had flown over the clouds of the kingdom. My kingdom— well, soon to be kingdom, I was the prince and my mother had grown deathly ill. Without her there was painic everywhere. Know one new what to do, and now it was up to me to defend the kingdom and everyone in it.

I wasn’t sure, though, if the dragons where going to attack or if they where just scaring us. But, whatever the reason they had to be taken down before it was too late. There was only one way to kill a dragon and that was with an elven sword. Swords so rare that the common man would kill for one. And as a gift for becoming allies with the nearby elven kingdom, they granted us one. But this was a one shot kind of thing. Of If I don’t wound or kill the dragon, then it will know I tried to attack it and kill me. And I shall be the one to slay it.

That was my intention at least. Slay the dragon, become a hero, I was so arrogant, so full of pride that I was blinded by the truth. I failed to slay the dragon and it didn’t kill me, but instead took over my kingdom and left me with a scar across my face as a reminder of what happened. It’s my fault I was blinded and that was my defeat.