Those scars would probably never fade.
This realization made Basil sigh as he looked himself over in the mirror. Again, he remembered why he usually just slept in his clothes or covered up the mirror.
But even the mental scars would never leave.
Quite often, the detective would still have nightmares of the moment he narrowly evaded death's clutches, gasping and opening his eyes in a cold sweat at the feeling of falling. A minute or sixty with his pipe would calm him down just enough to go back to sleep.
No, sadly, that day would never fade from his memory.
Oh, how he longed to trade it for those which he lost.
The furthest back he could recall in his head was being twelve years old, wandering the streets, and being so completely unsure of his identity. And the feeling of being so alone, that no one would claim him as their own, or even so much as help him try to find "home", made him break down and cry when he ambled into the sewers, and thought no one would see him. Between sobs, he wondered if anyone actually did see him in the first place. Didn't anyone care about such a little boy with charred fur?
No, no one took any notice to him.
No one but him, the one who took Basil in, raised him, taught him everything, fed him, and much later became his worst enemy.
Coming back to the present moment, Basil looked back down at his arms and stomach once more. Each scratch was a moment of fear and pain that flashed into the mouse's mind.
And neither the scratches nor the flashes of such an angry face would ever leave him.