Wanna Know How I Got These Scars Novels & Stories

He stilled. I traced my hands down his back slowly, feeling every crevice on his skin. My fingers hit a bump and I stopped, tracing my fingers on that particular scar. "Where did you get this from?" "Uhm, I got it from training while I was younger," I raised my brow in confusion. "How possible is that? You shouldn't be getting such scars from just training. This looks like you were beaten severely by a whip," Xavier extracted my hand from his back and turned to face me. He smiled drily and held my hand in his, playing with my fingers and somehow focusing his gaze on my hand.

I stammered. She stood up and walked out of the room, returning with a mirror in hand. I stared at the huge scar on my face, tracing its jagged edges with my fingertips. It was a familiar shape, yet somehow foreign. I tried to recall the story behind it, but my mind was blank. “How did I get this scar?” I wondered, “Was it a childhood accident, a fight, or a careless mistake?” The more I stared, the more elusive the memory became. It's as if my brain is hiding the truth, leaving me with only questions.

I can't be bothered to go into the bathroom to change, so I just face the wall while I take my top off and pants, but I make my mistake early, I forgot about the permanent yellow bruising, the fresh red and purple coloured and old white scars, and the deep knife and bullet wounds covering my back and legs. I feel pairs of eyes searching my body, I turn around and find everyone staring at me. And me being me, I make a joke out of it, but they take it seriously. "Wanna know how I got these scars?" They look at me like I'm a lunatic, worry and concern lace their faces, "yeah, actually we do, they look really bad" Saffron says, obviously looking super worried.

“Fuck, I may die first.” Her head moved from side to side as her lips curved. “You said last night that no man has died from not ejaculating.” “It’s an untested theory.” She turned, sitting on her knees and stared down at my chest. After an agonizing, indeterminate amount of time, she lowered her hands over my pecs, running her palms over my skin. “How did you get the scars?” “Knives, mostly.” I lifted my arm and showed her a more circular scar. “That one was a bullet.”

And then she lifted herself, tiptoeing as much as she could and I bent over to aid her wondering what she wanted to do. She held my face in her hand, thumb stroking over my jaw and then my scar, "How did you get it?" She inquired. "I did it myself." For a lot of reasons. "Care to share why?" Her eyes were sad when she looked at me and I wondered what she would think seeing the scars on my back, they weren't self inflicted but the ones on my laps were. Sadly enough, I used self harm as a means of escape and I never wanted her to see me bare because of my marks.

Hope knows I am not a morning person, and I need to be coaxed. I flop over on my back, kick off my blanket, "I'll be right down. Leave me some coffee, or someone might die." I hear a laugh, "No worries, we already know." I hear Hope's footsteps heading down the hall. I pull myself out of bed and into the bathroom. Time to get the day started. I turn on the shower and undress. I catch a glimpse of my mate mark in the mirror. Looking at myself naked makes me cringe because that damn mark is staring back at me. It has been about a month since "The Fight," as it's called now. I have healed completely and have minimal scarring, considering the extent of my injuries. It was primarily cuts and brui

And that my date would be a fool to not strip me down and have his wicked way with me on the side of the building that has no camera or lights. My hand had gone straight to my stomach as phantom pains took over my body. A scar in the shape of a half-moon contaminates my flesh. I've had it for as long as I can remember, and my Aunt Joy never really elaborated on how I got it. The doctor who treated me strongly believed that I had buried the memory due to the trauma my body had gone through. I have a strong feeling that I received the scar in a car wreck that I was in with my mother when I was roughly six years old.

I ignored Jonas’ protest and went to stand beside Lisa, my eyes pleading. “Please lift your hair and show me your neck.” “Okay, okay. Calm down. Here, look.” Gently, she turned her head, exposing her neck where the scar was. I gasped, my heart pounding. It was the same. The same shape, the same size, the same location. It was Kiara’s scar. It had to be. “How did you get this scar?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. “It’s from horseback riding,” she replied, her voice trembling. Her words left me gasping for breath, my mind reeling with possibilities.

With a chuckle, I forced myself to sit up, pulling the sheet firmly so it stayed above my chest. "I don't think my scars are iconic like yours, Quinn." "Every scar counts to me." He sat attentively. Sleeping with him wasn't enough. We were now talking about scars. "This," I started showing the little cut on my knee. "Is from highschool. I landed roughly after a shot in the basketball net." "Mmm, sports girl." "Yeah, you bet," I grinned and lifted my palms to him. "I got burned while I cooked in Fernando's bar. That's before he put me in the bar."

Taking a shortcut through the buildings, I arrived in my room without being seen, hopefully. I was shaking from head to toe. I had crazy eyes and a scratch on the side of my face. I think it was when we stumbled down, and I had to slide my face over the hard sand. A free face scrub that had scrubbed away my skin. There was no way of hiding it from anyone, and he was for sure going to ask. I applied some face cream, but it only made it angrier and redder, so I washed it with cold water to lower the swelling. Not only had I been assaulted, but I bore the scars and bruises to prove it; the digit marks were all over my hips and upper arm. Good thing those were cover-able, but when I stepped out