Scars In The Hand Of Jesus Novels & Stories

Scar walked over to Cindy's bed,her eyes warm,you would swear she's different from the person who pushed her down,two storey building. “Cindy my friend,how are you feeling” She asked warmly, sitting beside her. Scar was pleased by the sight before her,from the cast on her neck,her left leg hung on a sling,and right hand hung on her neck. Cindy scoffed at the pretense. “I'm good ,I'm still alive,when there's life, there's hope” Cindy answered with a smile on her face. “I brought fruits for you,heard it helps the body heal fast”

I couldn’t fathom how anyone else would think any different, but this time when I roam his features, his scars were gone. Darting up from his body, one hand slapped across my mouth, the other tracing the deep scar that should have been going through his eye down to his throat. The tough skin, marred with red and purple, was now gone. His chest was completely clean, not a speck of once ripped skin.

she breathed, her hands coming up to thread through his hair. He looked up, his gaze locking with hers. “You see my hands,” he said, holding one up between them. In the dim light, she could see the network of fine white scars, the knuckles that had been broken and re-set, the undeniable strength. “They are a monster’s hands. They have ended lives, broken alliances, built empires on ruin.” He lowered it, palm open, and slowly, slowly, laid it over her heart. His skin was warm, rough, infinitely gentle. “But they are also these hands. And they are yours. To soothe. To protect. To worship.”

And I can only see what she saw. “Come on,” I mutter. “Show me. Show me your face.” The figure kneels beside her, and for a moment, I think I’ll finally see him. But his face remains in shadow, too far above her line of sight. His hand extends toward her, and I freeze, every muscle in my body going rigid. There, on the inner side of his wrist, is a scar. Ugly and puckered, the kind that comes from a deep burn. The tissue is raised and twisted, like whatever burned him went all the way through the skin to the muscle beneath.

Celeste's Pov I started paying attention to hands, not intentionally at first. But once I knew there were two of them, I needed a way to tell them apart that didn't rely on mood or tone or the way they made coffee. The scar was the obvious tell. Thin line on the left hand between thumb and index finger. I'd seen it twice. Both times in the evening. Both times on a man who moved easier, talked softer, laughed like it didn't cost him something.

I shuddered violently as his fingers traced the imperfections. "Scars are reminders of war. Evasions of the Reaper. They should be worn as a badge of honor," he stated boldly, his hand snapping around my throat in a reminder he wasn't saying it to be nice. Nothing he ever did was out of kindness. "Then why don't you have any?" I rasped, slowly melting into his hold. Finding comfort in his aggression. Never pretending he was anything else. His hand moved to my chin, holding my face harshly in a strong grip.

After hours of contemplation, I realized that was the problem. I turn, so that my back is to his front, and he is now cuddling me from behind. And because I am feeling extremely bold today, I take that hand in mine and turn the palm upward, so I can see it. It is a brutal scar. A rough patch of flesh has cover it. it looks like he had his hand meet with a chainsaw. The cut is really close to where his fingers meet with his palm. He had almost lost his fingers. The wound hadnt been given enough attention or time to heal, if it had, it wouldn’t have left such a bad scar, filling his palm with calluses and dead flesh.

She slowly reaches for his hand. “It’s okay. You have my permission for this.” He searches her eyes in the dark, but nods and lets her draw his hand to her arm. The scars were slightly raised and pale, slightly silvery and only slightly paler than the rest of her skin. His hand was shaking in hers,

I need to know he’s alright, that he’s here. My hand traces the center of his chest as I fumble to find the buttons. I can’t find them, so I grab them and pull them apart. I hear the buttons break away from the fabric, clicking as they hit the floor. My hand contacts the skin on his chest and a spark erupts, causing me to flinch and pull my hand back. I once again touch, running my hand up to his shoulder. There is no bandage, I feel around until my fingers land on rough skin. A scar? I look up where I would imagine his face is, and my jaw hangs open. I can’t believe he was scarred also was it the silver?

Lady Josephine murmured. Her eyes hadn't stayed on my face. They had dropped down to my right hand, which was clutching my bag strap so tight my knuckles were white. She set her teacup down on the tray with a faint clink. Her hands started to tremble. "Your hand," she whispered, her voice suddenly dropping into a breathless, terrifying rasp. I looked down at my hand. My thumb was resting right over the pale, crescent-shaped scar on my index finger, a bad habit I’d had since I was a kid whenever I got nervous or scared.