12 Scars Novels & Stories

It felt like all the air had been sucked from the room. His back… it wasn’t just scarred. It was destroyed. From the powerful swell of his shoulders down to the waistband of his pants, his skin was a landscape of ruin. Long, jagged scars crisscrossed every inch of skin. Some were thin and silver, others thick and raised, like ropes of tissue. There were burns, too—circular marks that looked like cigarette ends. Whip marks. Knife cuts. Places where skin had been torn away and grown back wrong.

His voice is shrill unlike the usual confident and bossy tone these brothers posses. I nodded in oblivion. “Tell me about them.” He questioned. Where is he heading with this? “There are of an accident. Some of them are Abrasions, one is a Laceration scar, it is on his shoulder. It is deeply cut by something sharp and few are contusions. Many of them are almost healing.” I say tentatively. “That’s it?” He asked. “What do you want me to say? I don’t like talking about those scars.” I particularly don’t like talking about Alexander’s scars. He almost died.

But it isn’t his beautiful physical body that stops me dead. It’s the endless scarring that laces over his whole body. There’s a long, angry scar that stretches from his waist, all the way up his stomach and chest, ending at his collar bone. There are at least a dozen lash scars across his back, and I remember seeing visions of him being whipped as a young teenager. Dozens and dozens of scars crisscross over his arms, his chest, his neck, his sides.

She stood naked in front of him, and every instinct she had screamed at her to cover herself, to hide, to run. She didn't. His gaze moved over her like he was reading braille with his eyes. He saw the bruises that had faded to yellow-green on her knee—from a fall three weeks ago, clumsy and stupid. The sunburn line on her shoulders from a day she'd forgotten sunscreen. The soft curve of her belly she'd never learned to love. The scars. God, the scars. Eight of them. Ten. She'd lost count. He rose from the bed in one smooth motion. Standin in front of her, close enough she could smell the cedar and tobacco on his skin. His hand came up, slow, and his fingers brushed the scar on her collarbone

She might take your face off if you aren't careful," Joanne frowned at his comment. There are at least a hundred. No!More than that! "Don't..." Karen moaned in a pained tone. Conor withdrew his hand immediately. Did that hurt her? "Let's set her down, Jo," Bart advised as he carefully helped lay her back down. "Well, what do you think, Conor? Does this make you want her less because of these scars?" Bart quietly asked as he watched his expression. "I've never seen that many on one person in an extremely long time." Conor was silent as he took in the many scars he had seen. "There has to be at least two hundred, if not more. It's like a lifetime of lashings for ten people," he frowned. I mean

Skyla's hand fled to her chest when she had a glimpse of his fully naked upper body. His body was badly bruised and had scars all over it! Skyla exclaimed, "I thought one deep scar might be responsible for all of this…" With that she lifted her eyes to gape at his blood covering the ground before getting back her gaze at his chest and then his abs. She continued in her mind, "But there are scars all over his body! It's impossible for me to conceal all of them! This doesn't look like an animal attack! I don't see any person would have done this much harm to me after all he seems strong enough to face whatever comes his way!" Skyla's eyes got teary and her heart got heavy on seeing the amount

Her chest and torso bore a multitude of intersecting scars, a painful reminder of the brutal attack she had endured. Unable to bear the weight of her curiosity, she turned her gaze towards her back, praying that the mirror would reveal a different truth. But her hopes were shattered as she caught sight of another set of claw marks, etched into her skin, extending from her shoulders down to the small of her back. Tears cascaded down her face, mirroring the anguish she felt deep within her soul.

he retorted, a hint of confusion tainting his voice. "Well, typically, scars that have been present for over a decade tend to gradually fade due to metabolic processes," Gwyneth replied, recalling the scar she had observed at the hospital. She was certain she hadn't misjudged it. Elizabeth's scar couldn't be more than a few years old at most. Furthermore, burns and scalds affected muscles differently, with scalds generally healing faster.

“She has been showing them to people.” I felt sick in my stomach. Pictures of Marcus and me?. Pictures I'd forgotten even existed?. Pictures from before everything had fallen apart between us. Chris continued, his voice getting angrier. “She's sending them around like they're some kind of proof that Rebel is trouble.” Sean's hands curled into fists, “What else?” Chris’s voice lowered, “The scars.” I stopped breathing. “She told everyone Rebel has scars running down both her arms.” The room went silent after that. I simply couldn't bring myself to look at anyone's face at that moment.

Alive. "Can I see?" she asked softly. "See what?" "Your scars. From the blast." I hesitated for a long moment. Then I pulled my shirt over my head and dropped it on the floor. The scars weren't dramatic. Just small marks scattered across my ribs and shoulder—shrapnel wounds that had healed into pale, puckered lines. Nothing like the ones inside my head. Chloe's fingers traced over them slowly, gently. Her touch was feather-light, almost reverent.