Scars: Part III


I wake up to the call of the cuckoo bird and the sun’s fingers tingling my eyelids, one of which is marked with tiny scars. A slow breeze walks in through the window framed with a thin white cloth to make up for a thick curtain.

Adriana’s emerald eyes pop into the first thought of the day and a slow smile creeps up my lips. Another day of hard chores awaits me. I realize that every morning my eye opens despite a slow aching wish of not waking up for once. The wish has burnt into my spirit for a long time now but ever since Adriana has come into my life, I sometimes feel that I might want to take back that wish.

An hour later, I find myself feeding the chickens in our backyard. The sun beats down on me like a rain of rays that is heating me up. Once done I dust my clothes free from the crumbs and head back to my room. Near my front door, I watch the milk men’s daughter laugh out loud at some joke. Her scars are prominent in the broad daylight yet she has some reason to lighten her heart. Unlike me, she knows how to balance her pain with merriment.

I walk into my room and take a broken piece of mirror in my hand. It fails to capture my entire face but it shows parts of my face and one feature at a time, decorated with scars. Scars that are big and scars that are small yet each speaks of the pain that has carefully carved it.

Everyone in the town wears scars as testaments to some form of agony they have been through. But my scars are the largest in number that I have seen and I am also the youngest child to have them. Scars aren’t meant for children or at least that is what the whisper mill churned when I walked the town’s street with my mother. She had a thing of hiding my frail form in her clothing as though I was her little girl. Little did she know that I would turn out to be weaker by nature than even the girls.

A crisscross of marks sits in layers on my tanned brown skin. Words such as, “coward,” “you loser,” “what a girl” reverberate in my mind. Each scar has its own story to tell, a tale of anguish, hopelessness, and suffering. I don’t blame the wrongdoers though, I blame myself for being so fragile in the first place.

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