Novel & Cerita Scars By I Am They

As he moved, the moonlight caught the skin of his back. Amora’s breath caught in her throat. She had seen Oscar in work shirts and t-shirts, but she had never seen him bare-backed. Crisscrossing across his broad, muscular shoulders and running all the way down his spine were thick, pale, jagged scars. They weren't the clean marks left by a wolf’s claws during a fair fight. These were deep, twisted tracks—the kind left by silver-tipped whips or heavy, electrified batons. Without thinking, driven by a healer’s instinct she had inherited from her father, Amora reached out. Her fingertips softly brushed against the edge of a thick scar near his shoulder blade.

There they were. The scars. Long, silvery reminders slashed across my hips, and the sides of my stomach, like brands. My fingers grazed over the marks and I swallowed the knot rising in my throat. "You look damn good," Hasmik squealed. I forced a smile. "I don't feel it." "What do you mean?" she frowned, stepping closer. "That green is doing unholy things to your skin." I turned slightly, folding my arms over my stomach. "The scars," I said quietly. "They make it hard to see anything else."

He just peeled off his hoodie, leaving on a worn cotton shirt with a faded logo on the chest and sat down on the edge of the bed like it was sacred ground. When Elena sat beside him, her hand found his without thinking. She guided his fingers to her shoulder—the one with the thin, pale scar that curled beneath the seam of her shirt. She pushed the fabric away slowly and placed his hand there. Her heart thundered, but her hand didn’t shake. “This,” she said, her voice quiet but strong, “used to make me feel ashamed.” Jack traced the line gently, then leaned in and kissed the scar. “It doesn’t have to anymore,” he murmured.

I barely recognized the girl staring back at me in the black screen. Scars ran down my face, souvenirs from the day I ran into the fire to save the photo Axel and Gloria left behind. None of it mattered anymore. Leaving him was the only thing that did.

Ryan raised the chair in his hands, and with a swift motion, brought it down on me, his eyes cold as they met mine. I was paralyzed by the fear in my eyes, unable to move. "Ah!" The pain shot through me like a jolt of electricity, and I couldn't contain the blood-curdling scream that escaped my lips. My fingers were crushed instantly, mangled and bleeding, as I stared at them in disbelief. The physical pain, sharp and intense, barely compared to the crushing weight in my chest.

A flicker of fear crept over me. Scar was heavily built and almost as tall as Wraith; his eyes were blue, and his hair was a shock of white. He too was covered in scars, but the most gruesome was on his face. It seemed like someone had carved him open from the forehead down, only to restitch him back up. The Ironside Pack were on their feet now, cheering. I could finally understand why Rex thought of ‘Scar’ as a worthy opponent. He definitely looked the part. “Last calls for bets!” a man called out, and Rex motioned him over.

" The only sound left in the room was the steady ticking of the machines. I turned away and carefully put the irises into the vase by Mom's bed. He stood up slowly, quietly. "Remember to put ointment on your knee when you get home. It's scraped." The door closed softly behind him. I thought I heard a muffled sob. However, maybe it was just my imagination. Back home, my daughter gently put ointment on my knee. I patted her head, turned on the computer, and started writing a new post. Title: [About Camila and the Road I Took.] She should have known I would not let it go if she exposed me.

"Don, the knife work was lethal. If you'd truly meant to kill me, I wouldn't be here breathing." A flicker of madness in Wade's eyes froze for a split second before he erupted into a wild laugh. His laughter twisted the scars on his face into something even more sinister. Out of nowhere, he lunged and clamped down on my wrist. His grip was so strong I thought my bones might snap as he tried to shake me off. However, the moment his fingers brushed the inside of my wrist, he froze. There, an ugly burn scar marred my skin. It was an old wound, shaped like a scorched butterfly.

Or simply the quiet joy of being alive. "Let me see you," she said, reaching for his shirt. He allowed her to undress him, his body emerging from the layers of leather and wool. The scars on his chest caught the light, silver lines on bronze skin. She traced them with her fingers, each one a story, each one a battle survived. He shivered beneath her touch. "You are beautiful," she said. "I am scarred." "So am I." She pressed her palm flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat. "Scars are not ugly. They are proof that we did not break."

Everything I do, every step I take, is all in a bid to make her smile; I need her, in a way I never thought I'd need someone ; My willpower must remain intact however; Never must I waver; Not even during those brief moments when she thinks I'm not looking, and I feel the hatred pouring off her in waves; Or when she cringes as I reach for her hand before deciding it's okay to trust me; It's not her fault though; I know that, and I love her for trying to make me feel loved; But I am scarred by her resentment; The curse I can never lift. "Having fun?"