Hidden Scars Novels & Stories

Still hers. She trailed her fingertips his arm, as the morning light danced over the bruises and healing wounds as if trying to make sense of the pain etched into his skin. Battle scars. Every one of them earned in the fight to get Sophie back. The war might have been over, but peace hadn't yet settled down in her heart. Grayson stirred beside her. "You ever going to stop watching me sleep like a serial killer?" She smiled faintly. "Probably not." He cracked one eye open. "Creepy and sexy. That's very on-brand for you."

The cool air against my skin sends a shiver down my spine. I try to keep my hands at my sides, resisting the urge to cover myself. “I’m ashamed,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. The lingering effects of the marijuana makes honesty easier. “I’m embarrassed for you to see my scars…” I trail off, unable to meet his eyes. I hadn’t considered this part before—exposing the lashes on my back, the healing burn on my chest. These visible reminders of my trauma suddenly feel like insurmountable barriers.

The moon had long since set, but Aria could not sleep. She sat curled on the edge of her bed, knees pressed tight to her chest, the shadows of the room pressing in on her like a cage. Her gaze never left the seared mark on her wrist. It pulsed faintly under the torchlight, its glow soft but unyielding, mocking her with every heartbeat. Her nails had scratched the skin raw. She had tried again and again to scrape it away, to draw blood until nothing remained but torn flesh. Yet no matter how much she clawed, the mark endured bright, damning, cruel.

I guess that’s why I have my scar, a reminder of the fact that I’ll never be as strong as I need to be. As strong as I want to be. Maybe I deserve the scar…. I-i know I deserve my scar it’s all my fault. I… I need to search the body. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, collected the supplies and got to my feet, stumbling backwards as my backpack settled on my shoulders.

She generally avoided looking in the mirror and whenever she did, her true self was buried under layers of concealer. None knew her true self except her brother and Mrs.Williams who were introduced to partial truth. Now, when her gaze raked at her raw form, she could see the proof of being ugly and a disgrace. There were faint red marks on her arms and her thighs decorated with whip marks. Her left breast had a large scar running down her stomach, mocking her. It was still fresh, even after 9 years. With fear in her eyes, she turned to see her back, a caterwaul erupted out of her. Her back still had the burnt testimonies of some reddish-brown marks, some greenish-purple bruises. Her back cou

The night they cynically came to the hospital she seemed rough and soulless but now she seemed like such a gentle and innocent woman. Perhaps God had put her in my path to convince me that this revenge was hurting me. Maybe she was more soulful than I thought and I was really wrong then. There was something else that caught my attention and that was those lyrics. They were so sad. They expressed a deep, deep pain. But who could hurt such a soul so deeply? The lines of the poem she wrote kept echoing in my mind: “With feet lost in the fine sand I’m heading for the shore, shy and tentative

The heat in my skin turned cold. His hands froze. His eyes glued to my skin. For a second, I forgot how to breathe. The room became painfully quiet. My eyes dropped to where his eyes were on my scars. What I've pretended I didn't see for years. Suddenly it became clear as day. I could see a single one. “I don't like scars,"

The pressure was gentle, but the warning was crystal clear: "Remember why we're partners. It's about destroying the Ferraris, nothing else. Don't go where you don't belong." "I can fake someone's death, but I can also make it real." My breathing hitched for just a moment. Then I smiled and covered his hand with mine. "Of course, Mr. Rosetti. We're the perfect team." He hesitated, then released me: "My private doctor says your scars are treatable. Start preparing—we'll schedule the surgery soon." My eyes lit up. As he headed for the door, I called out: "Your face—why don't you consider getting yours fixed too?"

I reached for my oversized, cotton shirt, the one I used as a shield, a comfortable cocoon, but my gaze snagged on my reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back wasn’t the girl who used to cower beneath the weight of her father’s harsh words and Lisa and Chloe's physical assaults. My shoulders were broader now, my posture straighter, a testament to the disciplined workouts I had adopted. My arms, once thin and perpetually bruised, held a quiet strength. The faint ghost of old bruises, once a vibrant tapestry of purple and green, had faded to pale shadows on my skin. They were silent reminders of the torment I had endured, a constant whisper of life I struggled to leave behind. All exce

The weather was cold justifying the oversized hoodie and pink thick socks she was clad in. She swiped through her gallery, looking at the pictures taken at Ireland. Group pictures, pictures of her and June, pictures of her with Ivy, pictures of her with Jordan, pictures of her and Daniel. Her legs brushed each other as the memory of the night of Truth or Dare ran through her mind. She jumped down from her bed, disposing the empty yoghurt bottle in the waste bin closest to her. She climbed back up, taking another yoghurt with it her, glad she collected two from Luke.