Painted Scars Book Novels & Stories

I turned to him fully, forgetting I was bare, forgetting everything except the raw truth in his voice. “You really see me like that?” I asked, small and wondering. “Not broken? Not… tainted by everything that happened before?” His hand rose slowly, paint-smudged fingers cupping my jaw, thumb stroking my cheekbone. “You were never broken, little moon. You were bent—by cruel hands, by a world that didn’t deserve you—and you still grew toward the light. That’s not damage. That’s strength. And every mark on you—” His gaze dropped to the faint silver lash scars across my ribs, the ones that had finally faded to soft lines. “—is proof you survived. I paint them because they’re part of the most bea

Chapter 2 “Thank you” he said lifting her hands to brush his lips in an airy kiss, whilst studying her face. She had amazing hazel green eyes, he imagined drowning in them but as he looked deeply into them, he saw something sad lurking behind them, she seemed to have hidden them quite well and Richard had a sinking feeling that she hide it even from herself, someone had hurt her badly and she pretended to not feel the pain, Richard felt his hands fist up and realized that he actually wanted to strangle that person and hurt him even worse than the way he had hurt this woman.

The scar is a container and a protective space where the memory can be stored and endured privately. The causes of scars remain in storage in the body and the mind, and sometimes can shape actions for a person’s entire life. That's what Beneath The Scars is going to talk about . It's going to talk about how to never give up without a fight. W A R N I N G The book contains scenes of self-harm, mentions of abuse and suicide, themes of grief and depression, and sexual content towards the first half of the book . Readers are requested to proceed with caution. Please skip if you see any scene that you may find triggering.

Not only did silver give us physical pain, but it also made scars if it was exposed to our raw flesh. I knew without looking that my body was covered in thin white scars on my stomach and thick lash marks on my back. They were layered, they where interchangeable. My body was a canvas with pictures carved into my skin. Pictures, that when depicted, were the face of anguish. I was a painting titled ‘pain and suffering’. I was a collage of torture and tears. Yet somehow I still had life left in me. And I had to revenge.

The way he looked at me as though I had slipped through his fingers, though I wasn’t sure I’d ever been in his hands to begin with. Was that even a fight? I wasn’t sure. It hadn’t been shouting or doors slamming. Just silence. Silence with an edge sharp enough to cut through bone. I sat up with a sigh, swinging my legs off the bed. My scars prickled under the moonlight, old marks etched into my skin like someone else’s handwriting. I reached for the jar on the nightstand,the cream Malrik had left without a word weeks ago. Scar removal. Expensive. Rare. I rubbed it carefully over my arms, my collarbone, down to my legs. Slow circles, like erasing an old story.

Once his jeans and underwear were off, I started to get on top of him, but he turned us over, “It’s my turn. I want to open my present.” He unlaced my negligee and slowly pushed the spaghetti straps down, off my shoulders, to expose my breasts. He lowered the negligee until I could kick it off, then he stood on his knees and hissed as he looked down at me laying and looking at him, “Damn, I can’t believe you are mine. You’re perfect.” I asked, “You don’t mind the scars?” He shook his head, “The scars are not who you are. They are just part of your story. I love every part of you. Especially your story because I get to be a part of it.”

Like I said, I know that the scar doesn't deduct her beauty, but the look she has in her eyes as she looks at it says otherwise. I wish I knew how to make her love herself. I wish I knew how to make her stop looking at her scars as a disgusting reminder of her pain and I wish she would look at it as a badge that symbolizes her power of survival. Ella had helped me see that in myself. The ugly scars I have on my back used to make me hate my existence. But after seeing her painting with the dark butterfly with purple cuts on its wings, I couldn't help but see them as a trophy that showed my survival.

Cole’s POV “Don’t feed me lies!” I roared, grabbing whatever I could reach and flinging it across the chamber. The echo of glass shattering against the walls was the only answer, until Grace’s small whimpers broke through, her hands pressed desperately against her ears, tears slipping down her pale cheeks. “Take your hands off your ears, Grace,” I commanded, my voice rough with the fury burning through me. She hesitated, trembling, before slowly lowering her hands, her eyes wide and glistening with fear.

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.

A smile of a devil. He hold out a hand and then reached for her face. He caresses her small pale face with his big palm and long fingers. He touched and tapped her cheek gently with his thumb. It was cold. Her face was cold and she was close to having frostbite. He frowned at the texture. It was unpleasant to touch. His thumb went to her lips next. He rubbed it and instead of feeling the soft, delicate, and plump feeling he always felt before, his thumb felt a whole different texture. It was rough as sandpaper but as his finger wandered, he touched a sticky liquid.