Painted Scars Novels & Stories

The painting was dark strokes, about a twisted figure clawing out of the shadows toward a bleeding horizon. Nothing about it was pretty. But it was me, in every line and color. “It’s…” I hesitated. “…just something I made when I couldn’t breathe.” Julian’s head tilted, studying it like it was more than just a painting. Then he looked at me— straight into me, before parting his lips to speak. “You paint like someone who’s bleeding on the canvas,” he said softly. “Like every brushstroke is a scar you’ve carved into color.”

Her eyes moved to her arms, where several bruises had formed. He sighed heavily. He had already seen those bruises when he pulled her from the water, but seeing them now made his chest tighten. He didn’t know exactly what had happened to her at sea, but it was clear she had been through something traumatic. The bruises on her arms were large and dark. Maybe it was just because of her pale, almost porcelain skin— skin so delicate that even a slight bump would probably leave a mark. She had the kind of complexion that mosquitoes would hesitate to land on.

I can't be bothered to go into the bathroom to change, so I just face the wall while I take my top off and pants, but I make my mistake early, I forgot about the permanent yellow bruising, the fresh red and purple coloured and old white scars, and the deep knife and bullet wounds covering my back and legs. I feel pairs of eyes searching my body, I turn around and find everyone staring at me. And me being me, I make a joke out of it, but they take it seriously. "Wanna know how I got these scars?" They look at me like I'm a lunatic, worry and concern lace their faces, "yeah, actually we do, they look really bad" Saffron says, obviously looking super worried.

We keep each other safe. I touch the scars on his arms and count them. Like the stripes of a tiger, they go all the way up to his shoulders on both arms. Some are deeper than others. They are like braille on his skin. Even a blind man could tell there is a story of pain that burns upon his epidermis. I touch his scars and feel them on his shoulders. These scars are everywhere on his body. Even his mid-section probably has scars everywhere. He has marked himself for life with these man-made scar tattoos.

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.

Grace nearly dropped the soap. Scars, large and small, crossed his torso. She'd seen bullet scars before. There were two right next to each other under his left arm. She was so focused on the terrible scars that she barely noticed the black, abstract, curvilinear tattoos on his chest and shoulders. They were fierce, with what looked like stylized talons interwoven with curving, concentric whiplash curves. He was bruised almost black on his right side. More tattoos covered his wrists and elbows in precise, flowing patterns made up of repeating geometric shapes. The burn scar on his left hand was part of a larger burn that marred the tattoo right up to his elbow.

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