Painted Scars Book Novels & Stories

she said, her eyes tracing my upper body and I had trouble reading her expression because she didn’t seem unsettled by my half-dressed state. “Everyone has scars, some are skin deep while others reach beyond that.” “Soul deep,” she whispered. “Are you referring to yourself?” She watched me mop up the blood and brushed the shards into the dustpan then smiled strangely up at me. “I don’t think my scars will ever fade.” “They don’t need to fade.” I grabbed her hand and touched it to the scar above my bellybutton and her fingertips fluttered over my skin, her eyes wide with shock. “A knife went in there. The wound wouldn’t heal for a long time. For a moment, I was sure it wouldn’t heal at all, h

Damien chuckled a bit. “Nobody cares about your scars, mate. With or without them, you are beautiful inside and out. Scars are not signs of weakness; instead, they are a sign that you survived something horrific. I don’t know what happened in the Midnight Pack, but I am sure you would have died, but here you are, alive with only scars to show what you went through,” he said, and I kept quiet.

He followed Mr Thompson to a shelf which had a bold written heading; THE BOOK OF SCARS. "The first book was written by the library keeper before me. He had a little knowledge of what scars meant but doubts arose that not all were interpreted correctly." He said, taking out two black books from the shelf. "So which has the correct interpretation?" He asked. "This." Mr Thompson points the right one to him. "My brother and I had to put in a lot to come up with a solid interpretation for every kind of scar and their meanings. Read through it and you'll see what I am talking about."

“Rue, do not make fun of me.” “I am not making fun of you,” I said. “I am reminding you that you are still handsome even when you look awkward.” Percy looked away. His fingers moved close to the scars on his arm. I reached for his hand before he could hide them. “Do not look at them like that,” I said. He became quiet. “They are not pleasant to look at.” “They are part of you,” I said. “Some came from old injuries. Some came from the blood pact backlash. Some came because you suffered too much alone. I hate that you were hurt, but I do not hate your scars.”

He was painting and saying anything he could, breathing in difficulty. " All the christians here, just tell your angels and God we need a miracle here, I need to go, I need to leave pain behind, even death has abandoned me," he cried in pain. I looked closer and for the first time saw how his arms looked. Their were scars everywhere, the scars had formed unique patterns horizontal, vertical, diagonal, like a wire mesh. Nobody did that fir attention. Each cut, each line was a representation of a pain on its own. It represented a battle and struggle that was overcome.

It also scarred my life. There was one woman who captured my eye in the crowd, a woman that was so familiar. She looked at me with pity. I smiled at her. Tears fell from her face. “Don’t….cry……Psyche..” I spoke as I closed my eyes. Letting darkness consume me. I feel less sad knowing that I saw a familiar and lovely face before I died.

"All my life, his shadow haunted me. Even now that he's gone, I still feel like he's lurking somewhere close-by, watching me with that murderous look in his eyes." "He hurt us both," Zainab said, sniffling. Her eyes returned to the painting, and she heaved a sigh. "You know what," Afrah said, "I think we can burn it now." Zainab carried the painting outside while Afrah fetched the matches. They stopped by the pool, and side by side they watched the canvas erupt in flames. It took less than a minute before everything had been reduced to ashes. Zainab turned to look at her. "I'm sorry," she said. "For everything I did to you."

Lauren gazed into the mirror as she peeled off her clothes, not wanting to miss a single sight of it. The once white bandages that had been wrapped on her back now had a hue of red. She sighed and even when she knew it would earn her scolding from Malcolm, she slowly peeled the bandage off her back closing her eyes at the gory sight that greeted her. Her eyes teared. She didn’t believe it was this bad. And Bryan had seen it too? It made her sob more. She didn’t want him to end up having trauma because of her. She was used to it after all.

Scarlett’s POV I carefully slipped out of bed, trying not to wake anyone, and tiptoed to the bathroom. My body felt warm and tingly as I undressed, memories from the night flooding back to me with every movement. Standing in front of the mirror, I paused, my breath catching as I saw myself—red marks scattered over my skin, vivid reminders of last night. Each one was like a little secret, a story written in kisses and firm hands. The passion we’d shared left its mark, quite literally, and I couldn’t help but laugh softly, my heart racing with the thrill of it all.

They were the snakes who had slithered into my trusted ranks, ready to spring at the master's cue. When the last chain fell into place, a guard, a man whose right cheek sports a thick, red-scrubbed scar that extends down from his temple, bent close, his own burning breath in my ear. "Damian wants you to hurt, Vincent. Slowly. He wants you to think of all the decisions you ever made. Particularly about Eleanor." He smiled coldly, knowingly, before he left for the door.