Painted Scars Novels & Stories

Mare threw her hand over her mouth to stifle the gasp that threatened to fall. She couldn’t believe it. She took more steps forward, grateful for the shadows that shielded her. Perci had tied his hair up to prevent it from interfering with what he did. Mare moved close enough to see without being discovered. Her eyes widened. The prince’s naked back was covered in scars. They were not battle scars or scars one could get from training or from the recklessness of childhood. These were intentional deeply etched scars. Some were old and others were fresh and oozing blood and water.

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.

he retorted, a hint of confusion tainting his voice. "Well, typically, scars that have been present for over a decade tend to gradually fade due to metabolic processes," Gwyneth replied, recalling the scar she had observed at the hospital. She was certain she hadn't misjudged it. Elizabeth's scar couldn't be more than a few years old at most. Furthermore, burns and scalds affected muscles differently, with scalds generally healing faster.

There were burns, bullet scars, more knife and claw wounds, and, amid it all, the scar from her surgery. Madison turned and he got a clear view of her back which had the addition of some sort of scarring that looked like a dotted line. Her neck had a stab mark which dragged to the middle of her back. “I’m The Phantom. You can’t do my job without getting hurt. If I thought I left evidence behind, I would burn the place. It took a while before I was good enough to not have to worry. I heal like a demon, but I scar like a human.” She pulled her glamour back on. “I’m able to make myself pretty, so I do. Ready to eat, or did that ruin your appetite?”

He shook his head in regret and gazed at the floor. "You are speaking in riddles, I can hardly understand what you are talking about. If this is your way of trying to get away from the punishment, you are sorely mistaken, you will be-" A ripping sound took over the cavernous hall as the man took a hold of his cloak and tore it into two, showcasing his naked chest. There were blue and gold cross cross marks all across it, some lumpier than others, tendrils of scarred skin stretched, like twines across it. At first, it seemed like they were scars, but on closer inspection, the so- called scars took up intricate designs and swirls. Ridges formed in certain places, while in others, it thinned ou

I rolled my eyes then rolled them right back to do a double take on what I was seeing. The room was dimly lit because I’d turned off most lights before climbing into bed but with Gavin's back inches from my face as he spoke to Maxwell, I could clearly see something I hadn't noticed before. The tattoos on his back weren't just a mass of linework and dark shading. They also had… texture. Raised. Uneven in places normal tattoos wouldn't be. Like they had been drawn over things. Scars. Lots of scars, carefully mapped over with ink, the way you'd paper over cracks in a wall and hope no one looked closely enough to notice the wall had ever been broken at all.

Both Roy and Stephanie shot her sharp glares. Lilith straightened at once, her face turning pale. “I... I'm going to sit somewhere else,” she muttered awkwardly, already backing away. Without waiting for a response, she slipped out of the room. Roy’s jaw tightened as he turned back to the doctor. “How long until these scars heal?” he demanded. The doctor’s lips pressed into a grim line. “I don't think they will, Mr. Gates,” he replied carefully. “The cuts were too deep. Even with treatment, there will likely be permanent scarring.”

I worry I’ll wear these scars forever. Stepping out of the shower, I wipe the condensation from the mirror and freeze. A mark lingers on my neck, darker and more stubborn than the others. Deep red, tinged with purple. My fingers press against it, watching the color blanch before seeping back into its original hue. A pleasurable tingle ripples down my spine. That’s new. Is this one different from the others? It reminds me of the one Braden has on his ribs but I thought that was a birthmark. I'm sure I haven't always had this here ... Have I?

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.

Before, I had forgiven him time and time again, driven by both my love for him and my gratitude to him for saving my life. But now, staring at my bloodied hands, broken and unrecognizable, I cried and laughed, my emotions in turmoil. When I was six, my father had an affair and abandoned me and my mother. The betrayal devastated my mother, and she cut herself because she couldn't bear the pain of his departure. Her depression, coupled with the scars on her hands, led her to abandon her dream of playing the piano. But one day, after hearing me play, my mother's eyes lit up. She found renewed hope.