Hidden Scars Novels & Stories

"Trust me, I'm not Jamal please… Believe me. It was complicated. She pleaded tearfully. "Do you realize the gravity of what you've just done? You deceived me, Natasha – that's what you did. I now see the reason why you had rushed all of this. How can you explain to me that you had cancer and hid it so long until now and my daughter too is affected, why,why did you do this... takes a deep sigh and continued You know what, this situation is not just complicated; it's like a labyrinth of emotions. Honestly.. you're more haunting than a nightmare, and trust me, every fiber of my being aches with regret for being entangled in this".

My eyes and hair are some of my insecurities, which I inherited from my trash father. My mom is so beautiful, she wears beautiful black hair and dark eyes, which Silas inherited. My mother and brother are both dead. It still stings inside my chest, but I was trying to forget all the painful memory this past few years but every time I tries, memories will flash in my head, repeatedly hunting me.

I was running from the ghost of my dad’s infidelity, the way he’d looked at my mom like she was a stranger, and the constant, gnawing feeling that I was too much – too loud, too big, just too much for this world to handle. My hand instinctively went to my wrist, tracing the faint, silvery scars that marked a chapter I desperately wanted to forget, now hidden beneath a stack of colorful beaded bracelets. The scars were a roadmap of my lowest points, a physical record of how much pain I’d inflicted on myself, all because I couldn't bear the weight of the world’s judgment. Each one was a memory of a night spent crying in my room, the sharp sting of the razor a temporary distraction from the dul

💔Hidden Scars💔 (😱😵More Unraveled Secrets😵😱) By: Kã Mä Râ . . ✏Written By: _____Authoress Kamara✍_____ . #Season_2: ✨Episode 29✨ . ✨Semi-Finale✨ . 🔞🔞🔞 😎Reece😎 She land back on the bed with as I laid on top of her staring into her beautiful eyes.

Lenore whispered. She was trembling as her eyes landed on her scar scattered back. Her back was almost completely covered in scars. They were all in various stages of healing. Some are still bright pink, others the color of her skin. Her back told a story of horror. Flashes of her step mother yelling about food being overcooked or undercooked; even though they were. Items going missing and mysteriously returning. Items breaking she was not ever involved. It was all just a punishment because she never belonged there. Tears slipped out of her eyes, her mouth trembling as it tried to hold back her cry. She didn't know seeing the scars would make her feel this way. How could anyone want to look

Gwyneth stared at the hideous scar in the mirror, lost in thought. It had been ages since she had taken a close look at it. The scar ran horizontally across her abdomen, starting from the front and stretching toward her side, even reaching further toward her back. Gwyneth pursed her lips and delicately traced her fingertips along the scar. It no longer elicited any pain, but the fact that she had been young when her skin was burned meant that the nerves beneath the scar had suffered damage. As a result, whenever her scar was touched, she would experience a peculiar sensation—a constant reminder that her nerves had not yet fully recovered.

he said and we went inside the mansion into his room. He made me sit on the bed and removed his t-shirt, he stood in front of me. he grabbed my hand pressed it against his naked chest. “Look,” he said, I did, as I look closely, I noticed a scar on his skin. “It’s a scar,” I whispered. As Nikolai has a scar on his body, I have a scar in my mind. The memory of Greyson’s death. Scars are what make us who we are. Everyone has scars…some are etched into skin, and some are burned into memory. Nobody moves through life without a scar slicing them in half.

Teeth flashing in the moonlight, and then I shuddered. The wounds had healed over time, but the scars remained from every time I had spoken out of turn. Every time I had dared to buck against their pathetic system. The scars on my flank were a permanent reminder of the worst night of my life, but the internal ones were the ones I couldn’t escape. Maybe they wouldn’t ever heal.

Not when I saw the marks that lived beneath her clothes. Not when I ran my fingers across them with aching slowness. Not when I kissed them, one by one. Scars. There are so many scars. Some thin and raised, like the memory of whips. Some jagged, the kind left behind by sharp edges and cruel hands. Some faint but deep—old ghosts, worn into her skin like forgotten names. They told stories she never spoke aloud. Pain, she never let herself voice. And here they were, bare beneath my lips, laid out like fragile truths.

I whisper with my eyes trailing over her bare arms. She snorts, nodding her head, “there was a point in my life where I used to hide my scars. They made me feel dirty, reminding me of the abuse and trauma that comes with them. Now, when I think about it, I kick myself for wasting so much time hiding my battle scars like they were a dirty secret. I’m seriously contemplating getting them tattooed and flaunting them every chance I get.” As she speaks her truth, her eyes sparkle with determination and survival instinct, forcing me to believe everything she says in awe.