Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: For sick-at-heartxx's Scar challenge. This was a really emotional piece to write and I hope it touches a nerve somewhere. Parts of this, in the first and third parts, were based off of my own life. This oneshot, in turn, is dedicated to all who have felt pain because they couldn't feel anything else.
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Part One - November 1997
The knife hesitated, but only for a second. The great tragedy was not that she felt pain but that knowingly, wilfully, she was hurting herself. One more cut, she told herself, just one more. Another flash of blood - and she felt nothing.
Is this how desperate I am? she asked herself. Is this how much I want to feel something, feel anything other than what's going on in my head? It is, and it's all I can do. I am not ashamed of what I'm doing, nor am I proud. It's all I can do.
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Part Two - May 1998
"What happened to you?" he asked. She blinked, not knowing what was going on, until she realized that he was staring at her bare arms.
"I did this," she said. No witty comeback, no carefully crafted lie, just the truth. It was time for someone to know.
To see his girlfriend, coverered in scars, brought tears to his eyes. He didn't know what to say next, couldn't possibly know or understand what she had done... It was too much. Each scar was a memory, a story retold on flesh, and all he wanted was to know how she could have hurt herself so much.
He didn't fault her for what she'd done, even as he struggled to grasp it. No one was perfect, and she had known what she had done to herself. He couldn't help but love her for it, for in his mind anyone so desperate to feel anything was so deserving of love.
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Part Three - several years later
Every scar tells an unforgettable story, but hers was one she wanted, more than anything, to forget. Each time she changed clothing, she was forced through the unspeakable pain of looking at her arms, seeing what she had done to herself. She had been sixteen then, when the only way she could feel anything was by taking a knife to herself. Several years later, the memories linger along with the scars.
The scars she saw every day was what reminded her of how easily she could be broken, and how hard it was to be put back together again. Just recently she had begun to feel hope again, to know that she was not defined by what she had done. Her actions would always haunt her, but what had been done was done.