Disclaimer: insert acknowledgement of ownershiplessness.
NB: Contains reference to domestic violence. Told from the point of view of Draco. Sorry it's such a downer.
NBB: I can't decide whether to write the next chapter in third person or as a diary entry, and if the latter a diary entry of whom. Please help me to decide, you wonderful people you, or if you have any other ideas I'm open to suggestions.
Chapter 1:Scars.
As I step out of the shower and tie a towel around my waist I catch a glimpse of myself in the large mirror over the sink and turn to face it. I can see from about four inches above my head to my jutting hipbone, and by God it's a dismal image. I keep my eyes fixed on my torso and arms, knowing that if I look into my own face I'll become embarrassed and turn away. For some reason it seems that that would be a dire mistake.
I know that I should be getting His dinner started but try not to think of the consequences lest I start to cry again. I can still feel my recently shed tears tickling my cheeks. I only ever cry in the shower. The water washes the tears away so there's no evidence left.
It's a crime to cry in His house.
The first scar my eyes fall upon is the one leading down from my collarbone to my last rib, on the left side. It's faded now, much less noticeable than nine years ago when it had finally healed, and is just shiny where the light hits it and is slightly raised. I try to allude myself that I don't remember why He gave it to me, but I do remember. It was because I took my shirt off in the garden while tending to the barbeque. It was to teach me modesty.
The next is the jagged ring on my chest, slightly to the left, to remind me that the heart that beats beneath it is His, not mine. Nothing's mine
I seem to recall a few pale drops of blood on the bed sheets connected to that one. Not much. He is always careful. There isn't much more evidence in His house to make anyone suspect the array of scratches, bruises, scars which decorate my body. Always my body, never my face.
Then there's the cigarette burns. I always know when they're coming because He only ever smokes in bed. Once His breathing slows He lights up and starts to smoke. The worst part is knowing that He won't finish it. He doesn't own an ashtray. Why would He need one? I become extremely aware of my naked body and I get so scared I start to wish that He would just hurry up and get it over with before I cry. I can't cry though. Not in His house.
When I finish surveying my chest and stomach I turn to see my back, twisting my head to look over my shoulder. There's a white bandage taped there and I try hard not to press my chin onto it.
There are the usual marks: burns, bruises, scars made with His silver Auror knife and the scratches made with His nails. But there is also the bite mark on my side, a scar three years old. This one had been for no other reason than He had felt pissed off and hadn't bitten before, or since. He says He doesn't like the taste of my blood, and for that I am grateful.
The only other different mark I can spot is on the small of my back. It's a crudely carved lion, dyed black with ink. At the time I was sure He made it all the more painful because I struggled, but the reason He did it was as primitive as most of the others. It is there to prove that I belong to Him (AN: almost wrote 'I belong to Jim' there) How could I forget?
I cringe at my sarcastic comment as I turn to face myself again. I shouldn't be doing this. He could find out. In an absurd moment of terror I think that He's in my head and can hear my blasphemous thoughts. I know that this is impossible but He has a way of knowing things. Everything.
And yet I still don't move.
Even He hates the scars, although He created them. I can see the abhorrence in His eyes as he runs His painfully delicate fingers over them. He is Dr. Frankenstein and my scars (the ones which are really His scars) are His monsters. Only He didn't stop at one. He couldn't.
There is one more type of mark, and these are the worst. There aren't many, only about twenty in all. They are pale brown and smooth, although they start to bubble and flake away now and again, and are roughly tear shaped, about two inches high on average.
Scars are ugly things, although Dumbledores belief that they are useful is a fair comment. They can help you negotiate your way around London underground, save you from Lord Voldemort, remind you of whose bed you should be in every night. It doesn't matter what the scar looks like. That isn't necessarily what makes them so ugly. It's the story behind them that makes them so monstrous.
I have many scars, and they are all ugly, but it is the last of these marks that are the worst. These are the scars the rose petals made.