Painted Scars Book Novels & Stories

Signs of her lost innocence. Sitting upright, she leaned back on the vintage metal railing of the bed frame. Varied emotions rushed through her, but the one that bubbled to the surface was elation. She’d never thought she’d experience such pleasure. Such passion. The deep gashes on her body had made her self-conscious about her body. About showing her body to a lover. But Kyle had kissed and loved on her scars. Making her feel seen. Beautiful. Desired. She never thought anyone would see beyond her scars and love her. Her fingers itched to paint these emotions inside of her. But first a shower, food and then paint. That’s if she managed to get her pleasured, aching body out of the bed. ***

The flame burns gently and warms the otherwise cold place and in the middle of the room is a great king sized timber bed where sleeping beauty lays. I take a seat next to her, wincing a little at the pain from my back. The burning plank scorched my skin and according to the doctor, it will leave a scar. Not that it matters. Physical scars fade over time, but what of the psychological ones? Will the phantom menace ever fade? And if she lives, will she be plagued by endless nightmares of the man who defiled her? I have to wonder.

💔Hidden Scars💔 (😱😵More Unraveled Secrets😵😱) By: Kã Mä Râ . . ✏Written By: _____Authoress Kamara✍_____ . #Season_2: ✨Episode 9✨ . . 💋Harley💋 I turn back and see him standing next to an all you can gift shop. He's not changed at all, only his hair have grown a little and he has a stubby beard right now.

These kinds of burns would usually heal without scars, but as they became repetitive, her scar tissues became thick and noticeable on her skin. Damien did not react surprised when she pulled her sleeves, and her scars showed. He casually checked on their sizes, and as he stared at them, his eyes also moved to the designs he had on the frames hanging on the wall. He was purely and genuinely focused on what design would be good considering the distances and sizes of her scars. "Do you have any designs in mind you want to get painted in here?" Damien looked up to ask her face to face after gazing back and forth her arm and to the wall. But before Flora could answer, Damien moved away.

Each scar held a story—a story of struggle, survival, and triumph. Deep admired these marks, not with regret or sorrow, but with a sense of reverence. They were reminders of his journey—a journey that tested his strength and perseverance. They symbolized moments of challenge and resilience, etched into his skin like chapters in a book. With every faded line, he saw a testament to his body's remarkable ability to heal, a silent declaration of overcoming adversity. These scars were symbols of battles fought and won, of hurdles crossed and lessons learned. They were not just marks on his skin; they were emblems of resilience and courage.

I tell her calmly “I’ve tampered with quite a few poisons and experimented with their mixtures.” Dinah looks up at me, a furrow in her brows, and I figure she must have a lot of questions regarding that information. I set the book aside and reach to roll up the sleeve of my shirt to further explain when my fingers still. She’s seen the ruined skin before, but in much dimmer light than this. I’ve seen the uneven, discolored mess enough times to not care, but I know how the marks look to someone who isn’t familiar with scars. Utterly hideous.

We stayed there, sitting in silence with nothing but the sound of rain outside the car. Her fingers slipped under my shirt, the damp fabric parting as she undid the top few buttons, as if she was unwrapping something she’d been dying to get her hands on. My breathing stuttered when her fingertips brushed against my skin, tracing over the ridges and valleys of old burns. I stiffened. I always did. Those scars were a part of me for as long as I could remember. No one touched them. No one ever fucking touched them. That’s why I inked over them, turned them into something else.

I assumed Skylar sucked out all the niceness in him through one of their many public kisses but he proved me wrong by coming to my aide and patching me up. “These will scar.” He sounded disturbed. Scars were nothing new to me. Scars decorated my back in their numbers, a map of whips, belts, canes, and everything else I’d been beaten with. The scars on my back were nothing; the scars on my mind were a telling of the pain that would never fade. I could cover my back and pretend I had nothing but smooth skin behind me but my mind lay bare to me, a constant agonizing torture. “It doesn’t matter.” I pulled away from his lingering touch.

"Oh no I am hideous, all the scars I have, such a terrible sight." "Your scars are beautiful." "Even the one across my face?" Prince Mangus asked. "Especially the one across your face." They smiled faintly to each other. "Scars are reminders of not what you have been through but you have overcome so you are just a wonder of a sight." "Wow, you are so nice, I guess it really was just me bringing out the hostility in you," he said and they chuckled. "I did say that," she said and they chuckled on.

Liziwe said not a word, but continued to stare unblinkingly, her mouth set in a firm, downward line. The month of confinement had not been kind. Her face had grown sallow and drawn; her bright eyes dull. The blow to her cheek had only begun to heal, leaving a shining, ripe scar in its place. It drew the eye, and made Susan cringe to look at it. And though one day it might fade, it could never be erased entirely: for there, upon her face, she would carry the reminder of that day, forever and always.