Painted Scars Book の小説・ストーリー

I SURVIVED Don't ever be ashamed of the scars life has left you with. A scars mean a hurt is over and the wound is close. It means you conquered the pain , learned a lesson, grew stronger and move forward. A scar is a tattoo of triumph to be proud of . Don't allow your scars to hold you hostage. Don't allow them to make you live your life in fear. You can't make scars in your life disappear , but you can change the way you see them. You can start seeing your scars as a. Sign of strength and not of pain. ---

His face blank. Too blank. Mara’s hands paused for half a breath. Only half. Then she recovered and poured water over a cloth. Good woman. She knew better than to make a wound feel like a spectacle. I did not. Or maybe I did and still could not look away. Because the scars were not ugly in the simple way damage was ugly. They were deliberate. That made them obscene. Someone had taken time with his pain. Someone had planned where to hurt him so it would last.

“The color suits you Maddie, it looks gorgeous on you.” The color did flatter her, but I had to fight back a gulp because the short length of the shorts exposed the scars from her previous years of abuse. “My scars show. That’s why I usually wear things that cover them. People look at me as if I have a disease.” I crossed the room to her and placed my hands on her shoulders. “That life is over. Your scars are going to be your reminder that you are so much stronger than you think. One day you will wear these scars proudly, knowing that they are simply battle wounds from a war that you won.”

“You told me once you were addicted to my face. Said it was your drug. Well… it’s gone now. Just scars. So please—go find someone whole.” “I’m so sorry, Jake…” Ariana choked out. “Sorry?” I laughed bitterly, my head shaking. “I wish sorry could fix it.” And then—something warm touched me. A hand. Small. Soft. Real. It was Liz. I knew how her hands felt. “Jake…” Her voice was soft, trembling. Her eyes were dripping with tears, but she didn’t look away. She wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t disgusted. She was just… there. She touched my scars like they were nothing, tracing them without being disgusted.

Then he accompanied her to the hospital himself to get the wound cleaned up. She'd thought he was overreacting, but he'd just smiled and said, "Lyra, you're the most important woman in my life. I don't want any scars on you—except maybe from having our kids. Smooth skin looks best with beautiful clothes and jewelry." And now, with her face covered in blood, he'd brushed her off to take care of someone else. He once swore she'd never have to bear a scar, but he made her risk her life to donate bone marrow for another woman. Even marriage and kids—he'd planned all that with someone else behind her back.

Jace was gorgeous, it was what startled me when I first saw him; Mesmerizing blue eyes, perfect nose, perfect teeth, jaw that could cut glass… “He’s too pretty. Flawless? I don’t know how to describe it.” I shrugged and cut into my stake. “And you don’t like flawless?” “It feels characterless, like the person doesn’t have a story to tell about their lives or like they haven’t done anything. It’s a bad take, I know, but- For example,” I showed him a scar on my wrist. “I got this three years ago when the kitchen door slammed into my hand. I raised my elbow revealing another scar. food festival; A guy tried to snatch my purse and I refused to let go of the strap. These are the resulting burns.

Ryan raised the chair in his hands, and with a swift motion, brought it down on me, his eyes cold as they met mine. I was paralyzed by the fear in my eyes, unable to move. "Ah!" The pain shot through me like a jolt of electricity, and I couldn't contain the blood-curdling scream that escaped my lips. My fingers were crushed instantly, mangled and bleeding, as I stared at them in disbelief. The physical pain, sharp and intense, barely compared to the crushing weight in my chest.

I held her by the throat tighter as I remembered how I spent over five days in the infirmary because of her and her childish jealousy. "So... Sorry." She managed to say but I brought out my makeshift knife and I tore her with it in the stomach. "Ahhhhhh." She screamed but I carried her towel that was drap over her shoulder and I shoved it in her mouth to muffle her screams. I tore her again on both of her laps. The cuts I gave her are not deep enough to make her bleed to death but the are certainly deep enough to give her an everlasting scar... Whenever she sees the scars on her stomach and thighs, it's will be a reminder of her stupidity.

The skin is raised and jagged, a stark pink against his tanned skin. And they still hurt him. When I brush my fingertips over them, he tenses beneath my touch and bares his teeth. It’s not a physical pain. These scars have long healed. But they’re like icebergs. They’re unmistakable and imposing on the outside, but beneath the surface is something much bigger and threatening. Something capable of sinking someone to the pits of their depravity, just like the Titanic. He went through hell in that facility. The scars on his body tell part of the tales he doesn't.