Painted Scars By Neva Altaj Novels & Stories

Nat looked lighter, happier than Zara had ever seen him. Her jealousy wasn’t visceral—it was sharp, angular, cutting. She turned away, fiddling with her necklace, staring at a painting of a naked Black woman, her painted breasts bold and unapologetic. “Bold. Black. Beautiful,” she murmured, recalling a poem she once wrote. “Absolute design derived from sand.” Another painting—a shattered mirror splattered with blood. She felt the sudden urge to cry. She imagined smashing a mirror in the hotel room, shards scattering across the floor. She smiled.

Once we became friends, she even volunteered to help me keep an eye on Alexander. "Alice, you should focus on your work!" she said with a twinkle in her big eyes. "If any girl tries to get close to Alexander, I'll be the first to shoo her away!" Sometimes, Alexander would get so lost in painting that he forgot to answer my texts. She would send me pictures to let me know he was okay: [He's safe in the art studio.] I used to feel bad about not liking her at first, so I decided to treat them to dinner on Alexander's birthday.

Elena stood against the wall, arms crossed under her breasts, green eyes locked on me. I carried the palette to the platform. Set it beside Lila’s hip. “Close your eyes,” I said. She did. I dipped the largest brush into the paint. The bristles soaked up the thick colour. I dragged it across her collarbone in a slow, deliberate line. The cold paint made her gasp. Her skin prickled into goosebumps. I painted a thick stripe down the centre of her chest, between her small breasts, over her sternum, stopping just above her navel. The colour looked obscene against her pale skin. Like a wound.

Elena stood against the wall, arms crossed under her breasts, green eyes locked on me. I carried the palette to the platform. Set it beside Lila’s hip. “Close your eyes,” I said. She did. I dipped the largest brush into the paint. The bristles soaked up the thick colour. I dragged it across her collarbone in a slow, deliberate line. The cold paint made her gasp. Her skin prickled into goosebumps. I painted a thick stripe down the centre of her chest, between her small breasts, over her sternum, stopping just above her navel. The colour looked obscene against her pale skin. Like a wound.

But agreeing was easier than explaining why I hadn't, so I let it stand. Wren was pretty in a sharp kind of way, all cheekbones and appraisal. Neve had a burn scar running the length of one forearm that she didn't bother hiding under her sleeve. "Sit, sit." Thea pulled the chair out for me herself, and I caught the look Wren and Neve traded over my head. "I've been telling them how well you've settled in. Haven't I?"

she gave me the ink and the brush “They say only those who burn the deepest scars can shape them without pain.” She stepped aside and I painted. A pup in a cage, a mother’s cry, the blazing pyre that remade me. Under the rising moon, Agalaya found me again and guided me away from the crowd. The music faded behind us. she led me to an ancient tree with bright red flowers.

I looked up at him just to found myself laughing my *ss off. “What the hell? Why are you laughing?” “Nothing, hahaha! It’s just that… hahahahaha… sorry! I mean, you look horrible!” “What the f*ck, Agatha Tatiana!” “Why? Truth hurts, Caleb Nicolo! I mean, you look like a mummy! You’re wrapped in a white bandages. From your head, to your hands and to your feet.” “It’s because of you.” “What? No! It’s not!”

Only I know how these looks of pity feel . No one knows....you may call scars beautiful but you know the one who actually has them. Knows deep somewhere in their heart, how ugly they look. Something which was so perfect, something so flawless that every one envied it. Was now just an object of pity. The skin which was perfect once, is tarnished now. And you know the worst part? No matter what you do. It will never....be like it was before. What's lost can never return. Sulking ,she didn't realised when the sun was down from the horizon and it was dark.

, I came out of my car and I wasn’t surprised when Scarlett came out wearing a long face. “You bitch!” She said as she walked towards me. “Can we do this later, I got work. Thank you” I said dryly and made to enter my car but she was fast to touch me by my hand. I quickly removed her hand from my body like it was a plague and looked at her angrily. “Never in your life, I repeat, never touch me with that hand you uses to give my dad a hand job” Scarlett looked pretty embarrassed as I said that but she was quick to cover it up with a scoff.

As I turn away from the mirror, my ugly scars catch my eye. I sigh, tracing the ugly, black vein looking scars that travel up and down the left side of my body and stop at the base of the back of my neck. I lost some of my memories that day my mother, aunt Katerina and I killed Alastor, but I used too much power and now have the scars to remind me. I force myself away from the mirror and step into the steaming hot shower. I let it cascade down my back, allowing the hot water to relax my muscles.