It's been a while since the scars have been so visible. It's so much easier to sympathise with strangers when their body is an exact replica of the stormy path of their hurdles; with zippers riddling through their skin.

This is a city where annually, scars are showcased through zippers holding the body of skin together.

You can't help but stare at one passerby; her walks slow and eyes the very definition of no spark. But what truly caught your eyes were her zippers; most were unzipped and underneath, there were only empty voids.

You glance away out of respect and clutched at your chest. Your hand felt the form of your own zipper through your shirt. It was zipped up, but still there. A sign that the scar is still healing.

Not yet healed.

There have been experiments done on the town's population and still no explanation. Every year when the zipper appears, where there should be tissue and blood underneath the skin, instead comes out an assortment of visuals representing peoples' pain, mentally and physically.

When it was the first month after your parents' death, you thought you were doing okay then, with the numbness in your chest and your dry tears. Only to realise it was just denial. The first time you got the zipper, it was placed on your chest, unzipped with white lilies littering your bedroom.

A bump on your shoulder snapped you out of your daze. The stranger bowed apologetically and rushed away with a wave of, "I'm really sorry about that!"

This time however, you notice that this stranger had no zippers whatsoever on his skin. A sudden feeling of jealousy surges up but you quickly quell it back down, realising your own outward appearance. From the outside looking in, others might also think you have no zipper because it's hidden.

Besides, whether visible or not, and having one or not, it wasn't right to judge. Maybe that was the point of the zipper's existence?

Steadying yourself, you clutched your grocery bags. Time to go home.