Scratch Marks Novels & Stories

The marks are purple by morning. I notice them while getting dressed, my sleeve riding up as I reach for my hairbrush. Four distinct ovals pressed into the inside of my left wrist, thumb-shaped and deliberate. I study them for a moment under the bathroom light. Then I pull my sleeve down and finish getting ready.

What I didn’t know: How much of what she said sounded official because she said it like it was. “Marks can fade,” Angel went on airily, as if lecturing a freshman. “Trial bites. Emergency claims. There are a dozen ways to make something look like a mark that isn’t one. Press silver nitrate and salt into a scratch and humans swear they can smell the oath. Pretty, but not the thing.” “Is that what you had?” The question came out before I could stop it—my curiosity undressing my fear. “A pretty, not the thing?”

A mark appeared. Faint, the way watermarks appear in paper held toward light, visible for three seconds before it faded. Not one of the bond marks, not the crescent scar from my first night. Something entirely different. It looked like a tree, roots and branches in equal measure, radiating outward from a central point.

And I’m just so grateful we found each other. The scar of the fresh mark I left on him stands out in contrast to his tan skin, and I reach out to trace my fingertips over it, smiling to myself. Mine. Brock’s mine and I’m his. The serum makes it so we’ll forever bear the scars of our marks to show the world that we belong to one another.

He murmured, grabbing my waist to turn me around. “Don't be stupid, Mark.” I said slapping his hands and taking my makeup case out of the bag “Let's hide the hickey, the other thing can wait.” I lowered the turtleneck as much as I could since he, apparently, wouldn´t help me because he didn’t move his hands from my body, and I took out my base to start applying a little. “Are you putting makeup on me?” Asked incredulous. “Of course not, I'm just covering the crime scene, that's all.”

There is a tattoo near the spot, like a tattoo as a sign that I also have near my neck. "Is this a scratch scar? Does it hurt? "I asked. Dori shook her head "this is not a deep wound. After all, all of that was defeated with the pleasure that Abigail gave me," said Dori, smiling brightly. "It's different from Dori, my mark is on my right back, Albern gave a bite mark there. look," said Jasmine and asked me to look at her back. I tried to shift a little of the clothes that covered Jasmine's end. There were indeed scars from the fangs and covered in tattoos.

Turning the inside of her arm towards me and moving the scarf aside. She kept a straight look on her face as she regarded me, with a slightest hint of confusion. It had been only a glimpse but I caught it. Staring down at her arm, I looked at the four long scratch marks lining it. The festered, probably infected and still unhealing scratch marks. I could see how Damon regarded her arm from the corner of my eye, but I was too busy staring at Evelyn. I looked up at her, and her eyes registered some sort of resignation.

I bite down until I taste blood, and by the time I’ve escaped the flashback, I’m wearing nothing but my underwear. “I don’t see anything.” Madison gripes, clearly disappointed. Nerissa shakes her head gleefully. “She covers it with makeup– but feel.” Three sets of fingers run over my brand. Nerissa is right. Covering the mark with foundation might hide it from view, but it can’t disguise the indentation carved into my skin. “Oh my gods, it’s true.” Madison exclaims.

I have a lot of tattoos and most of them mean something to me, but the scratches she leaves on me are the best markings I have. The rhythm we've made drives me crazy, hard and fast yet still so tender and loving. Amelia tips her head back up to the ceiling as she rides me hard, moaning loudly as my fingers start to quickly rub her where our bodies connect. I don't know how much longer I can last, and part of what pushes me over the finishing line is watching her do the same.

Almost delicate. Three slashes. Straight and even. And right beneath them is a spiral. So small it’s almost invisible, unless you know where to look. I trace it with shaking fingers. It isn’t just marking me. It’s writing something on me. And I don’t know what story I’m becoming part of. But the forest does.