Painted Scars Novels & Stories

What the hell have you done to yourself? Without makeup, my scars looked harsh. There was a long line of raised, light pink skin along my hairline. I had a scar line across the apple of my cheek that extended to the middle of my cheek, and a smaller one on the top of my lip. And hundreds of tiny pink marks scattered across half of my face, neck, chest, and arm like they were freckles. My entire left collarbone was covered with marks of stitches. I squeezed my eyes shut. It's fine. You're alright. It's fine.

Still hers. She trailed her fingertips his arm, as the morning light danced over the bruises and healing wounds as if trying to make sense of the pain etched into his skin. Battle scars. Every one of them earned in the fight to get Sophie back. The war might have been over, but peace hadn't yet settled down in her heart. Grayson stirred beside her. "You ever going to stop watching me sleep like a serial killer?" She smiled faintly. "Probably not." He cracked one eye open. "Creepy and sexy. That's very on-brand for you."

They were fixed on her forearms, on the faint silver lines that traced her skin like a map of pain. Scars. Not the dramatic ones from battles or the marks of her sovereign blood. These were older, smaller, the remnants of a different kind of violence—kitchen burns, rough handling, the casual cruelty of those who had once thought her nothing. Dante emerged from the bathroom, a towel slung low on his hips, his dark hair damp and tousled. He stopped when he saw her, his gaze following hers to the marks she traced. "You're doing it again," he said quietly, crossing to sit beside her on the bed. "Disappearing into the past."

“They selected four paintings this year. Yours was one of them.” Verity’s lips parted. She could not speak at first. Her eyes filled with tears before she could stop them. They slipped down her cheeks, warm and sudden. All the nights she had painted alone, all the times she felt invisible in her old life — it rushed back at her in this quiet room. Quentin turned her gently to face him. His thumb brushed her tears away with such care that more came. He wiped them slowly, his gray-blue eyes soft on hers. “Thank you,” she said, her voice shaking. “I don’t know how you did this… but thank you. No one has ever seen me like this. Not really. Not until you.”

“You told me once you were addicted to my face. Said it was your drug. Well… it’s gone now. Just scars. So please—go find someone whole.” “I’m so sorry, Jake…” Ariana choked out. “Sorry?” I laughed bitterly, my head shaking. “I wish sorry could fix it.” And then—something warm touched me. A hand. Small. Soft. Real. It was Liz. I knew how her hands felt. “Jake…” Her voice was soft, trembling. Her eyes were dripping with tears, but she didn’t look away. She wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t disgusted. She was just… there. She touched my scars like they were nothing, tracing them without being disgusted.

His beautiful body right in front of me makes me just keep staring and then I see a full-top body full over tattoos and scars. "I have scars too, Casey; some faded and some will always remain. I covered up a fair few of them but believe me. You're beautiful, baby. You are so beautiful, I don't care about what you look like. The scars show you survived. It's part of you and if you don't like them, then that's also okay; you can do whatever you want to them. Tattoos or skin grafting, of they allow that or if it's even a thing to do,. Let me look after you"

But how is that possible with someone so damaged? I touch her back with my fingers, softly run the tips over the scars, not mine, my belting will heal. The deeper ones etched into her back like an abstract painting. Carved into her soul. Some are raised and as I slide a finger down one, goosebumps rise across her skin and she shivers. "Don't." Her voice is muffled, distant, soft and defeated.

She watched as he frowned at the button , his chiseled face was like a sculpture, he had thick and roughly carved brows she felt like running her hands on them. He had a well carved beards which had evidence of not been shaved for a while, they where prickly but also tickled wherever his face brushed her arm. The lock of hair that had been on his forehead head was now brushing his eyes, Ann had the strongest urge to brush it from his eyes and indeed they did feel marvelously silky. Oh on! She had touched it, and now he was looking at her. But this time not only did he look frustrated, there was something else, it wasn't there before and it reminded her of the day at the library.

she said, her voice barely above a whisper. I took a deep breath, my fingers trembling as I reached for the hem of her sweater. Slowly, with a gentleness that belied my anxiety, I lifted it, revealing the expanse of her back. It was a tapestry of torment, a brutal testament to pain she had endured. Unhealed scars crisscrossed her skin in a chaotic pattern, like a road map drawn by a hand driven by cruelty. They were no longer the angry red of fresh wounds, but had faded to a lighter shade, standing in stark contrast to her otherwise unblemished skin. The violent pattern they formed was chaotic, as if the whip had danced across her back with a reckless disregard for the pain it inflicted.

Sadly , the paste have little to no effect on the scars that is left behind. I take my bottom lip between my teeth , and I gentle nibble on it. While doing that , I twist my neck as far to the left as I can do to have a look at the scars on my back. I hear my self whimper as I see my peach cream like skin , decorated with hideous revolting scars that are painted all over my back. It looks so appalling that I doubt I could ever wear a dress that shows my bare back again. I let out a painful sigh , just glad that all that is scarred is my back.