A/N: I decided to do a series of ficlets following the same style as Moon. They will fall into 'A Series of Fragments and Nothing More'. Please, review, tell me what you think.
Scars [Nothing But Reminders]
I have no scars.
I have fought so many battles—hostilities—assaults yet I have no scars to show for them. No proof of what I have gone through. Nothing. Nothing.
Except this black mark over my heart. The ink, dark as night, spreading in a circle, showing my blessing, my curse. Without it, I would have the scars of all of the fighting. Without it, I would be dead. And I know this. And so does he.
It stains my chest. My heart. It creeps across my body, tendrils of inky black twisting around me, holding tight. A reminder. All that I have. A physical manifestation of all that has happened. It is my scar. The only scar my body will hold.
He has many scars.
I have seen them all. I have felt them all, smooth—polished—uneven, under my hands as he writhes and gasps and presses. I know where they all are. A map of his life, imprinted into his body. There are so many scoring his body.
Everyone can see the one marring his porcelain pale face. The jagged, cursed mark signaling the connection that no one else can feel but him. Once he let me see the victims with him. Only once. And in my mind there is a scar, a ghost of what I saw. I do not want to see that again.
I touch it lightly, running a thumb down that scar—track—imperfection and across his lips and they part under my touch.
"What are you thinking?" he asks, and his eyes are focused on me. He reaches up and touches my hand with light fingers.
I do not answer. I shift my gaze to the scars he does not show the others. The scars that only I have touched—kissed—caressed. He hums and sighs and murmurs as I look, memorizing the imperfections of his body. I want to remember the map of his life. I want to remember.
"You can tell me."
"I know."
All of the marks of battle, lain out before me. I see them. I count them. I touch them. Everyone knows—but no one sees—the one making it's way from shoulder to hip, a mess of bulging tissue and shining, taut skin that shows no signs of disappearing—healing—fading.
I think no one wants to see it. A reminder of an occurrence that they can forget if they don't see it. But it is engraved in his skin; the pain—agony—torture. And so I let myself see it as well so he doesn't have to suffer through it alone.
I touch it. He breaths under my touch and I feel the steady beating of his heart and the burning heat of his skin. He is always so fevered without sickness. He is always so hotunder my touch. And I wonder why he hasn't burned up yet.
And the scar; it is just as hot under my hands.
"It's late," he says and his eyes are on the moon. And I think it might be calling to him.
"Yes."
I feel fingers on my chest. On my scar. The touch is soft. It is gentle. And it hurts so much it races through my body and I close my eyes and grip the sheets beside his head for a moment before I relax, realizing it is all in my head.
"This is all you have," he says. "Throughout all of the fighting. This is all that is left."
He is unsettled. Or is it jealousy? He has been marked—branded—imprinted since birth and I am here without a scratch; the only thing blemishing my body is the twisting and harsh blackness of my curse.
"It's a curse."
He hums in confusion and looks back at the moon. One day it will take him away from me, I know this for certain. The silver light shines against the scars. I can see them clearly. I hate them and I love them, I realize, and move to another. One that I know better than any other damaging his skin. One that I inflicted.
It is a spider. It spreads—undulates—winds in delicate patterns across the skin of his well-toned torso. I feel his muscles tense and relax as he shifts and I know he is looking at me once more. I don't look at him just yet, my attention focused on the fissure in the smooth skin, the perverse accumulation of ruined tissue.
"Does it hurt?"
"No."
I don't know if he's lying or not. I spread my hand across the mass of distorted flesh I am the cause of and look up. He is staring once more and it bores into me.
He touches my face lightly and I meet his gaze. His eyes are pale. So pale. Like the moon, they shine with a light I can not understand. He is a mess of scars and battles and fights, and yet he burns so fiercely. And yet, he can still smile.
He has many scars. I feel them each and every time I touch him. They are always there, just like his steady heart beat. And I agonize—resent—suffer with every beat of my heart and his, the guilt that I can't share the holding of scars on my body.
He smiles at me and I feel his arms sliding behind my neck, drawing me close. I have added to the map of painful events shining on his body, yet he doesn't hold me responsible.
I am void of marks. Void of reminders.
I have no scars.