Peerless Scarred Novels & Stories

Dylan glided across the room like a man from two or three millennia past, his body so full and real she reveled in the pleasure of watching him move, the need to have him in her still urgent yet paused, her appreciation for the perfection of his form like an artist’s eye for beauty. Yet he wasn’t perfect. Scattered scars spoke to a childhood and adolescence of outdoor exploration, and she gasped when he turned and she saw an enormous, jagged line running down his back. “What’s that?” she asked as he quietly locked the door. “On your back.” The scar was an angry, foot-long keloid welt that seemed so incongruously positioned compared to the rest of him. It stretched a good three or four inches

Which he did, and let me tell you that scar cream did zit. "A-fter a few m-months... he realised he t-the scars weren't healing. They weren't dissappearing like he w-wanted.... T-the only s-scar that actually healed w-was the one on my h-head. You can only see it if you l-look closely.... I'd g-get dirty l-looks on the street, so I s-started to cover up... T-that was when.... T-that was when my e-ex started.... calling me names. He'd tell me I-I'd never b-be beautiful again. T-that no one would w-want me, and I-I'd be alone forever." I whisper out through the sobs escaping my chest. I feel Alessandro tighten his hold on me bringing me into his lap, as he drapes the blanket back over me.

The scar is a container and a protective space where the memory can be stored and endured privately. The causes of scars remain in storage in the body and the mind, and sometimes can shape actions for a person’s entire life. That's what Beneath The Scars is going to talk about . It's going to talk about how to never give up without a fight. W A R N I N G The book contains scenes of self-harm, mentions of abuse and suicide, themes of grief and depression, and sexual content towards the first half of the book . Readers are requested to proceed with caution. Please skip if you see any scene that you may find triggering.

“Look around, Tessa. See those faces? Each one here carries the scars of battles fought without mercy. These are the warriors who do not back down.” Tessa’s eyes darted nervously across the room, landing on face after face that looked like they were sculpted out of damnation itself. One man had a scar running from his eyebrow to his jaw, like someone had tried to slice him open. Another had a nose so crooked it looked like it had argued with a fist and lost—multiple times. And yet, they were all staring back at her like she was dessert at a banquet for beasts. “Each one here carries the scars of battles…” Pedro’s voice echoed in her mind.

She had spotted Glenna's name on the contestant list, but organizers said she'd pulled out. So Rhea hadn't thought twice. Now, seeing her here backstage? Yeah, something was seriously wrong. Panic kicked in. She tried to shove Glenna off. Glenna sneered, pressing a knife to her neck. "Don't move. No one's coming. You deserve this. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be like this." She raised her other hand. The hand that once played piano like it breathed now looked wrecked—scars and a brutal slash across the palm.

Circular, linear, triangular scars of all shapes and sizes marred his skin, fierce and haunting. Patricia recoiled in horror, her hands trembling as she pushed his clothes back into place. Indeed, there wasn't an untouched spot on his skin. All were scars of varying sizes. What kind of cruelty leaves marks that never fade? Manda had beaten her too, but she had never been left with a single scar. Patricia covered her mouth with her hand, tears falling one by one, too heartbroken to speak. Hunter quickly grabbed his coat from the chair and put it on.

It was alluring, but a bit dangerous. One day, he offered me a glass of wine he made himself, leaning on a wall covered in vines. "Cheers to the new neighbor," he said in his drawling foreign accent. I took the glass, acting like I did not notice the ring on his finger that meant he was in the mafia, and I just smiled. "Cheers to you too."

She wanted to strip me of the masks I used, to try to rattle me. "You do not need to pretend to be scared when you have already shattered my world," I said, the bitterness at the back of my throat tasting like iron. The words came out softer than I felt, but they carried weight. Grace looked away at that and the movement said more than any confession. Tears leaked from the corner of her eyes. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, a ruined attempt at dignity. "I was pressured. I needed recognition. It was supposed to help me, not... this. It backfired." Her voice cracked on the last word.

Yet underneath, I could still see the small shadows that loomed, evidence of tiredness or stress. He was stunning. Distinctive yet flawless. Or, at least, almost flawless. Because marring across all of that, like a piece of fine art that had acquired an imperfection, though still making its appeal infinitely better, was a deep red scar that ran across the left side of his face. It was mostly healed, but I knew it was from the recent battle. I could vaguely recall how the injury looked when it was fresh, seeing it briefly in one of the flashes of memories.