Scars In The Hand Of Jesus の小説・ストーリー

When she suddenly stopped, with her hand inches from my neck, screaming out in pain, I was able to move again. Stepping back, I looked at her wrist, which now had a handprint burned into her flesh. Her fingers were extended, and she seemed to be trying to pull her hand back, but something held it. I could hear her flesh sizzling as if she was still being burned. When Artemis was finally able to move her arm, she jumped a few feet away from me. The burn on her wrist quickly healed, but instead of disappearing, a scar remained. This was the first time I had seen a scar on a God.

It was a more intimate, more dangerous feeling than any desire she had ever felt for him. Her gaze traveled downward, following the line of his shoulder, the arm thrown over the pillow. And then she saw his hands. The hands that had bound her, sculpted her, possessed her. Now they rested inactive, open on the sheet. In the daylight, she could see the scars in sharp detail: old white cuts, thick yellowish calluses on the palms and fingertips, skin dry and cracked in places like the bark of an ancient tree. They were the hands of a laborer, of a man who wrestled with raw matter to extract beauty. They were physical proof of his vulnerability, of his constant struggle. They were not merely inst

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.

Marcus asked as we watched the footage. "Not much," Officer Rodriguez said. "They were careful to keep their faces covered and wore gloves. But we can see that they're all average height and build, probably men based on their movements." One detail caught my attention. When the tallest figure turned toward the camera, I could see a distinctive scar on his left hand, just below the knuckles. "Can you enhance that image?" I asked, pointing to the screen. Officer Martinez zoomed in on the figure's hand. The scar was clearly visible - a jagged line about two inches long that looked like it came from an old injury.

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.