Sara

Sara used to be an optimist. That lasted until she was about twelve and started to realize how cruel the world - and life - really is.

She spent her college years drinking and injecting morphine into her bloodstream to forget her pathetic childhood filled with disappointment and loneliness. Her parents had a loveless marriage and, if her mother hadn't died when Sara was eleven, they would've definitely gotten a divorce sooner or later. Her father was never home, always choosing his job over his family. And Sara was left by herself to find a way to fill the void in her heart.

She found a way. There was only one love of Sara's life back then - morphine. The feeling of being underwater and unable to think about everything that was wrong with her life was just what she needed. It was her one and only escape from her miserable life. And she welcomed it with open arms. Literally. The proof was in the puncture marks in her arms.


Michael

Darkness and fear. That's all Michael remembered from his childhood. He remembered being locked in that room, the only light coming from the crack under the door. The sound of the footsteps leaving, no doubt going to the couch to watch tv while Michael struggled to find a way out.

He did get out once. For a brief moment, he welcomed the light streaming in through the window. And then he was being dragged back. Thrown back into the dark room, colliding with the corner of the laundry machine as a scream escaped his throat. Beaten with a wooden broom until the air was knocked out of him and his throat was raw from screaming and crying.

He still had a scar on his chest from the wooden broom.


Sara

Ever since she came out of rehab, Sara had been very careful. She stayed away from morphine and alcohol, going as far as to remove it from the emergency First Aid kit she kept in her house.

She moved to a new apartment and got rid of all of the things that reminded her of her past self - her clubbing outfits, all of the pictures of her around her so-called friends that had introduced her to drugs, everything.

The only reminder she had were the puncture marks that dotted her arms. She used to run her fingers over the marks, thinking about how weak she had been, how irresponsible. She would sit there, the anger and sadness enveloping her as she tried to get away from her demons.


Michael and Sara

The scars were still there. And they had been joined by many others that further displayed their struggles on their physical selves. But they didn't mean the same thing anymore. Whenever Sara looked at her arms, she thought about how far she'd come from that point in her life. She was married to a man that loved her unconditionally - and vice versa - and had a child on the way.

And whenever Michael felt the scar on his chest, he didn't think about pain or darkness or fear - he thought about how he had gone through so much worse and still ended up triumphant. He thought about the fact that he no longer needed a night light because the darkness wasn't terrifying when he was with the woman he loved more than life itself - and vice versa.

No matter how many obstacles they had faced, how many scars they had - mental and physical - they had come out on top. And, in the end, that was all that mattered.