Scars (Ziam)

Beauty in Hope

It was breath-taking.

It was a painting of a boy, staring in what appeared to be a mirror. The painting used light and delicate colours, showing the depths of the boy's eyes as he stared straight into my own. The frame that surrounded him was black and solid, but it didn't seem to trap him.

The boy in the painting wasn't me. It couldn't be. He had scars that were in the correct spots, but they weren't nearly as hideous and grotesque as my own. If anything, they were faint and not as distracting. He didn't look like a monster.

There were splashes of colour bursting out from the yellow-toned background of the painting, pinks and blues and purples all blending together in the shapes of handprints. I thought back to the bright dried paint that covered Zayn's hands.

The forefinger of one handprint stopped just near the boy's eyebrow, the thumb of another pressed gingerly against his lips. A flower blossomed near the corner of the black frame around the boy.

He had similar brown hair, brown eyes that held a suffocating and infinite sadness, and lips that didn't seem to even know what a smile is. He was so familiar... but he was beautiful.

"Finished it early this morning," Zayn finally voiced from beside me in a low tone. He held his hands up as an explanation or proof of evidence as I glanced at him.

I stepped closer to the painting. My fingers uncurled from the fists I had formed, and I reached out for the painting. Before I could touch the surface of the canvas, I dropped my hand, unable to bring myself to do so.

"That's not me."

I knew that I was broken, but I had never truly felt the extent of that brokenness until I looked at the boy in that painting.

"He's not horrendous."

Tears sprang from my eyes like the rain clouds I tended to love so much, but not nearly as gentle or lovely. Harsh, fast, and warm they rained down my cheeks.

I felt Zayn's hand in my own, seeing the blurred colours of paint on his hand before he lifted my chin to his face.

"You are not horrendous, Liam. You are that boy in the painting. You are beautiful and strong, but you are also in so much pain that you can't see that in yourself. But I see it. Your family sees it."

I shook my head, feeling foolish.

"His scars are bearable to look at. Mine are sickening."

"They aren't," Zayn said, and I felt his hand moved to touch the scar by my eyebrow. I remembered the poem, closing my eyes at the overwhelming feeling and feeling his hand flit to the scar beside my nose. Finally, his thumb pressed to my lip, right over the final scar. "People like Jaden just made you feel like they are."

"Why did you write that poem?" I pressed, squeezing my eyes shut while leaning into Zayn's touch.

Every part of me was shaking in his careful hold. My heart was barely hanging onto its own pieces by small threads. They would be so easy to cut and allow to fall apart. Still, I asked the question I didn't know if I wanted an answer to.

"You asked me to write how I see you."

He spoke as if it was the most obvious thing; as if I knew all along what he would write.

Perhaps I did.

Perhaps I had the smallest indication of the way he saw me; the way he felt, but my mind was wired to believe that it was impossible.

If he were the ocean and I were the moon.

"I... I need you to tell me why."

"Why what?" Zayn questioned, and I felt him step closer-- only ever closer, but I didn't turn away this time.