Thin white scars littered her dark skin, in no way reminiscent of the manner for which she had received them.

Some believed her to be one of _those. _People so unhappy with the life they were given that they caused themselves harm to feel alive.

Others saw the scars that covered her stomach and believed her to be the victim of abuse.

None of this was fact, for if they looked deeper they would see a young woman with the strength of a lion.

What they didn’t know was that on occasion her ears would ring, as if considering reintroducing the world of sound back into her life.

In the rare occasion she was asked what happened to her, she always replied honestly.

“When I was younger, I was in an accident. The cuts on my hands were so severe that the doctors recommended surgery to get rid of them. But I wanted to keep them, as a memory of what I survived.”

That was usually when people either backed off or cautiously asked what exactly happened.

She never backed down from a question asked out of curiosity. So she told them, describing the horrors of the accident that ripped away one of her five senses.

Most people are shocked to learn that she can’t hear a word of what they say, no matter how loud they speak.

They ask her how she can understand them and why she doesn’t sign.

“Would you understand it if I did?” She would ask teasingly.

They always say no.

And believing they now know everything, they leave. Curiosity sedated.

They never stay to understand the pain that chimes through her heart, or the full extent of what she lost that day.