There is no Evil here

The Scar

I run a thumb over it, barely visible in the palm of my hand. Such a little thing, with such big consequences.

It aches from time to time when the weather changes. I find myself considering life as if the worst had happened.

Barely an inch long, it winds along the heel, a silver snake on ivory plains. Little marks stretch across, like five little pairs of the strangest legs. It's strange what such a small piece of glass can do - a millimetre either way, and this thumb would never bend again. Pushed just a little further, there may have been a twin to the scar upon my palm.

What could I read, from the lines upon these palms? A story of foolish mistakes, a vague fate. Maybe.

It's such a little thing, this scar upon my palm. I should forgive the foolish mistakes of a child, but I cling to this reminder of what I could have lost. As if the little girl who hid away the shattered remains of an accident could be held accountable, so long after the pain has faded from memory.

The scar stays. A reminder. A warning.

It aches again. Perhaps it will rain today.

Look in the mirror, and I find another. Faint, barely even noticeable. But I always notice. The way it curves along the edge of my nose, close to the crease against my cheek. It curls across the tip, disappearing onto the bridge.

The doctor was brilliant, to hide what might have been. How different this face would be if the worst had come to pass.

A sandbox accident, with no culprit. Too early to know. But I remember the red bricks around the box.

Would I be prettier if there were no scars? If this nose was shaped the way nature intended, and not altered by scars and surgery?

My fingers find the faint line across the back of my head, another foolish accident. Would I be smarter if I had only listened to my father's warnings?

The scars tell a story, they tell me. But I don't like these stories. I wish I had a different story. This is my story, and it keeps going.

I wish I had a different story. Why is this my story?

My thumb finds the line upon my palm again.

It could have been worse. It could have been devastating.

But it isn't. This is my story, and I can still write it. These scars are chapters, moments that shaped the protagonist.

I touch my nose again, and a smile slowly forms.

Maybe I might have been prettier, but looks aren't everything.

I tie my hair up, fingers brushing that line hidden within.

I might've been smarter, but that is not as important as kindness.

These scars tell a story, and it's my story.

There are still so many pages ahead - more chapters to write. This story can go anywhere.