Scars Part I

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The moon floats on the clear, dark water’s surface. Weak ripples in the lake mirror the moon’s reflection. But it is still relentless, it’s round shape is firm and unforgivingly fixed although the edges look more buttery soft than the rest of its rigid round. Crickets chirp to the tune of the black night. The moonlight streams in layers through the clouds, scantly illuminating the lake I sit in front of and its sparsely planted borders. A few pebbles and a couple of rocks sit filtered at odd angles but they seem to hurdle closer to the cool water of the lake, afraid of the shadows of the lurking tress.

I imagine these shadows to be ghostly figures that sway to the beat of the winds, like puppets in larger events of things to unfold; mild indications of another sorrow to show itself tomorrow. The chocolate brown in the almond cut of my eye stares back at me from the lake’s glass mirrored surface. Had I not been so mindful about each of my feature, I could have never seen the swollen lower right cheek and thin chapped lips on my brown tanned skin tone in the blindness of this night.

I could have never seen the deep scars against the pale night but I could trace them without once losing track. A light, bump against my shoulder breaks my train of thoughts. I look in the direction of this friendly gesture and she stares at me with mischief in her emerald green eyes. She still sits there, her existence as true as the reality itself and her presence as assuring as a firm heartbeat that promises to breathe for long.

Her cherry pink full lips have a lively smile playing at its edges as she says, “hey, you” and nudges me lightly again. “Lost in thoughts again?” A small smile forms on my face, giving away my confession of having slipped again into the tornado of thoughts blazing in my mind. So she continues, “don’t you burden your heart so much, handsome. You’ll only kill it before time with so many worries pounding on its door.” She winks ever so lightly and I nod.

My voice often dies in a raspy whisper when she talks to me to like this. Before her, I never wondered if I really was anywhere within the parameter of handsome. But she constantly insists that I am one of those good-looking guys who are too humble to see through their shell of simplicity. I still think that a lanky guy who is better known as a bag of bones in the entire town has got nothing to do with handsome.

A few loose freckles pepper the area underneath my eyes and the brown of my hair is mostly a dirty mud cake that is never washed properly. Now that she plays with my hair though, I try to clean the dirt as much as I can but for that, I often end up having headaches by dipping my head in buckets of cold water, as there is no supply of warm water from the town’s boilers. Daytimes bring me work and disturbance so I rarely ever get a few spare minutes to clean myself.

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