Painted Scars Mga Nobela at Kwento

Every muscle and biceps was defined, trained into perfection. But his skin was imperfect. Scars. I had seen a few of them before but mostly the one in his back. They weren’t just one, they were multiple of them. A cruel map of violence, slashed, punctured and jagged tears. Pain lived there. The kind that no cocky smirk could hide.

She balled her fists, digging her nails into her palms, before she blinked, when his claw stopped right at her navel. That must be one of her many scars. She had her mother to "thank" for that. Wait, was he disgusted? She had never really paid attention to that, having been so used to the scars that she didn't even recognize them as such anymore, but instead, a normalcy on her skin. Even while he had painted her, along with her scars, she hadn't noticed it until now. She studied the thoughtful expression on his face as his gaze passed over her upper body with eyes swirling with lust.

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. ---

Hope knows I am not a morning person, and I need to be coaxed. I flop over on my back, kick off my blanket, "I'll be right down. Leave me some coffee, or someone might die." I hear a laugh, "No worries, we already know." I hear Hope's footsteps heading down the hall. I pull myself out of bed and into the bathroom. Time to get the day started. I turn on the shower and undress. I catch a glimpse of my mate mark in the mirror. Looking at myself naked makes me cringe because that damn mark is staring back at me. It has been about a month since "The Fight," as it's called now. I have healed completely and have minimal scarring, considering the extent of my injuries. It was primarily cuts and brui

No evidence of restraints tearing skin or of blunt force trauma. “These were not made with improvised tools,” Theo continued. “They were made with surgical instruments. Controlled incisions. Sterilized blades.” My stomach dropped. “And this,” he added, swiping to another image, “is the problem.” Highlighted areas glowed faintly on the scan. Fresh tissue. Minimal healing. “Some of these scars are less than a week old,” Theo said. “They were made after she claims to have escaped.” The corridor seemed to tilt slightly. “That is not possible,” I said automatically.

"Your eyes have gotten colder too. They used to be so vibrant so full of life. Now it looks like a cold paint of blue on an empty canvas." Her words pierced through me and a tear of my own fell past my eyes as I took in all of her. Her pale skin was home to many scars, running down her arms like a kid trying to learn how to draw. Irregular and deep. It was almost like this frail body didn't belong to this beautiful face. While her face was flawless, her body spoke of the battles she had been through. The endless war, internally and physically. The scars on her wrist where she had used a blade to tear off her skin, spoke of the internal battles she faced alone.

The visible scar is easily spotted and either fades over time or heals but leaves a mark. Then there is the dangerous kind of scars that creep up on you. The kind of scars that unleash a monster you never knew existed ... I call them abstract scars . Betrayal, deceit, heart break, heartache , teasing , bullying , abuse and stuff we choose to internalise in order not to appear weak ... That leaves scars .

I grabbed a white puffed sleeve shirt and put it on, then I wore it with light green trousers and a pastel pink chunky cardigan to conceal my scars, making me feel slightly more at ease. Grabbing my toothbrush, I start to brush my teeth, whilst applying a light amount of mascara at the same time. What it's saving me time okay? Finishing up I look myself in the mirror once more pulling the pastel pink cardigan over my shoulder to cover a scar that's peaking out.

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.

I hate the look of my muscles all tense and stitched tight on my back. A lifetime of blows and bouncing back collects scars. I've had a lot of scalding showers, and bruises have become stretched and angry on me, causing pitted scars. There are no tears, but the groans come in multitude. As a monster, you learn never to accept pain. Pain only affects you if you let it. Black slacks. Black socks. Charcoal shoes are polished until they look like a crisp new apple skin. The shirt is deep forest green, which brings out the natural multiple hues of green in my eyes. Intentional. Gold flecks are juxtaposed in my iris.