It's funny how things scar. Sometimes surprising, sometimes the littlest things: I have one from chasing around at Legends and getting caught on a brier. Nothing deep, just a long line of silver on me. It blazes up when I tan, and I'm almost tanner than I've ever been. I have one up my wrist from my bad, tough, dead girlcat in highschool. I love to see it and think of her wicked green eyes.
And sometimes there are the pretty obvious ones that you know as soon as you get them: they're going to stick: I have a scar on the inside of my throat. My calf where that Wampler boy threw me into a fence. Wounds you see and just know how it's going to look down the line.
I just got a new one, and I'm a little proud in my cut-up too-interested way about it right now. I ripped open my knee on a jut of beaver-pointed limb, and there's so much of me gone. I can look at it and know I'll never be on my knees in the same skin again.
No comments:
Post a Comment