Novel & Cerita Scarred

“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.

My new life turned out to be better than I had ever imagined. When I first came back to Silver Spring Pack, Marco was heartbroken to hear that I had not only lost two bloodroots, but I was left with painful burn scars on my arm. Furious, he wanted to storm Moon Forest Pack and demand justice from Aden. After all, if I’d had even one bloodroot when I was burned, my arm wouldn’t be marred by such ugly scars. For werewolves, scars were symbols of weakness and shame, having been defeated to gain them.

Through the haze, he thought he saw her. Rhea stood still, voice like ice. "Eddie, I don't love you anymore. I'm leaving. For good." "No! Rhea! Don't go!" He jolted awake, gasping. Glenna hovered beside him, tears in her eyes. "Eddie! You're okay. You scared me... Does it still hurt?" Eddie stared at the bandages. Underneath, his skin was wrecked—bloody, blistered. The meds dulled it, but the pain still bit through.

Her tears soaking into his shoulder while he murmured soft reassurances against her hair. "I thought I was broken," she whispered when she could speak again. "Thought all these marks meant I was damaged beyond repair. That no one would want me once they saw how much I'd been hurt." "You're not broken." Carlos pulled back enough to look at her, his hands framing her face. "You're scarred. There's a difference. Broken means can't function. Scarred means survived something that tried to destroy you and kept going anyway. And that's not weakness. That's the strongest thing I've ever witnessed."

Antonio just knows how to hurt someone badly. "What the fuck does *not really* mean?" Ben's words are sharp, and I hug my legs closer. As if a lightbulb had turned on in his head, he ceased in his pacing to look at me with a dark glare. "Did he scar you?" His voice is hoarse and nearly a whisper as it leaves the room thick with worry. Scarring is very difficult to achieve for a wolf because of how fast we heal. Only severe damage can cause it. I swallow hard at the question, which is all the answer he needs to hear.

I quickly covered it with my hand, and Marco noticed. “What are you doing?” he asked. “It’s ugly,” I whispered. The scar reminded me of the day I protected Marco. I didn’t regret it, but it wasn’t pretty. Now I had a scar on my back—and another on my chest. “It’s not ugly,” he said gently. I sighed. I didn’t believe him. Seeing the sadness on my face, Marco touched my cheek. I leaned into his hand. “Face me, Maddie,” he said, guiding me to turn around and kneel in front of him. He looked from my eyes to the scar on my chest. I looked at his chest too, where scars from Carson were still visible—especially the one from that awful day.

I glanced through the book again, reading every writing word by word until my eyes caught up with a statement. “You Can Only Know What A Scar Means If It Keeps Reacting On Its Victim, Then It Is A Sign Of A Bad Omen. But When It Doesn't, It Means It Is A Sign Of Remembrance.”

You are not…and I wonder why that is so. He turns around in the tub to look at me, qwondering if I understood what he's said. I do. I shake my head in disbelief. "A scars nuna karfin zuciya da kuma jimiri ne dagamatasa shekaru. Ban ce muku ya kamata a masanan basu ji dadin a gare su." (The scars show bravery and endurance from a young age. I don't think you should be disappointed in them.)

Her gasp echoed through the silence of the room as she beheld the gruesome scars etched across her chest, disappearing beneath the shadows of her nightgown. Amani's trembling hands moved instinctively, hastily discarding the nightgown to reveal her scar-ridden body in all its disfigured glory. She stood there, vulnerable and exposed, as she stared at her own reflection in horror. Her chest and torso bore a multitude of intersecting scars, a painful reminder of the brutal attack she had endured.

Scarred. "What the hell happened to you?"