"Made Of Scars"

This one came from looking

This one opened twice

These two seem as smooth as silk, flush against my eyes

This one needed stitches and

This one came from rings

This one isn't even there, but I feel it more because you don't care

Yeah, cut right into me

Yeah, cause I am made of scars

Yes I am made of scars

This one had it coming

This one found a vein

This one was an accident, but never gave me pain

This one was my fathers and

This one you can't see

This one had me scared to death,

But I guess I should be glad I'm not dead!

Yeah, cut right into me

Yeah, I am made of scars

Yes, I am made of scars

By Sour Stone

BPOV

The bruise was swelling. I'd never liked the colour purple, it looked revolting against my pale, near translucent skin. I pressed my finger to it, clinically amused by its mottled texture. It throbbed painfully, but it was bearable… for now.

Everything hurt, but then it always did. Nothing was ever left untouched by his onslaughts.

He stumbled through my bedroom door hardly able to remain upright from the ridiculous amounts of alcohol he had obviously consumed. His lips lifted in a sickening smirk, eyes arrogant, daring me.

I didn't move from my position in the centre of my bed awaiting what would inevitably follow. He did not disappoint, grabbing my wrist, he pulled me forward so I was mere inches from his face. The sickening scent of stale sweat and drink hung about him in a heavy cloud, overpowering, suffocating… It was all I could do to try and prevent revulsion from showing clearly on my plain features. He, of course, saw through my pretence with easy, his furious eyes gleaming.

Roaring he twisted my arm until I screamed, smiling at my cries of pain like the sadistic bastard he was. He let go only to backhand me viciously across the cheek, sending me smashing into the windowsill, my head cracking against the wall.

My vision blurred as his outline stalked towards me, I slide to the floor struggling to crawl to safety. With my next breath, pain exploded from my side as I bent double whimpering incoherently as he continued to kick at my ribs.

The blackness that I knew was coming began to close in, like a warm blanket dulling my senses as I fell into the void that was oblivion. Finding my escape, I fled willingly into the darkness.

As if in response to the memory the throbbing grew steadily worse until my chest heaved from my uneven breathing. I gingerly adjusted my position cringing as my body screamed in protest, biting my lip hard to stop the hiss that was building in my throat.

I glanced uncaringly at the clock, 4:30am. Time had run quickly and I had not noticed its passage. I couldn't allow myself to sleep, I knew this, not that I had much idea when it came to medicine. Pain rolled through me in unending circles from discomfort to out right agony. I needed relief.

I reached numbly for the my salvation, the only thing I had found that could make me forget.

The knife cut deep, slicing through the skin just above my elbow like it was nothing more substantial than silk. The warm blood looked strangely beautiful in the half light of my lamp, as I waited for the reprieve that I knew my actions would bring.

I lent back on my bed allowing the emptiness to flood through me, washing the pain to the sidelines as the nothing swept in. Anything to escape.

I knew it was sick and twisted and completely incomprehensible to most, but then so was I. Logically I knew that I was just creating a new scar on my already broken, deformed body. I just chose not to be logical.