scribbles; scars
Rhode hates her skin.
She has a perfect complexion. She doesn't break out, or get slick spots, or dry spots.
She has a thousand, tiny scars, and no treatment will make them disappear completely.
They are a constant reminder of things she has worked hard to make disappear. They cover her arms, her back and chest, her throat, her legs; every inch of her body, short of her pretty face and hands.
They're nearly impossible to notice, if one isn't looking very closely at them. But Rhode can see them, clearly- feel them crawling when she is tired and too full of thoughts.
She can handle the larger scars, her battle scars; the circle beneath her ribs, where she had her lung impaled with her own weapon; the mark left by a bullet on her leg. She fought for those, earned the memories of a survival. The small ones, however...
Two days of her life had disappeared, five years ago. She remembered things, still, in bits and pieces. A certain scent, a touch, would trigger some memory, send her reeling.
She was a person who craved physical contact. Before, it was the way she felt comfortable around people. Hugs, holding hands, something, something. She had started to avoid it, after a few too many little episodes. She disliked being viewed as something to be pitied, and she could see it in their eyes after they saw her panic. It was a crack in her mask she could not entirely repair, though she never ceased to try.
It was, however, unbearable at times. When she was younger, still living with her mentor, she would have followed him to ward off that insecurity. He was strong, and he had made her strong. He had always been there to support her when she truly needed it. He had taught her to fly when she needed to get out of the nest. He had created a powerful young woman from a fiery asylum escapee, and she repaid his efforts with her love and loyalty.
She was not seventeen anymore, however, and Germany was far, far away. In the night, in the dark, she would lie in bed with her large, warm dog at her feet, and press her hands to her chest to try and crush her loneliness, her weakness.
And in the morning, she will wake up, and make her bed.
She will lie about how she slept, and smile-- And avoid their gaze as she imagines their eyes taking in her scars.
She has a perfect complexion. She doesn't break out, or get slick spots, or dry spots.
She has a thousand, tiny scars, and no treatment will make them disappear completely.
They are a constant reminder of things she has worked hard to make disappear. They cover her arms, her back and chest, her throat, her legs; every inch of her body, short of her pretty face and hands.
They're nearly impossible to notice, if one isn't looking very closely at them. But Rhode can see them, clearly- feel them crawling when she is tired and too full of thoughts.
She can handle the larger scars, her battle scars; the circle beneath her ribs, where she had her lung impaled with her own weapon; the mark left by a bullet on her leg. She fought for those, earned the memories of a survival. The small ones, however...
Two days of her life had disappeared, five years ago. She remembered things, still, in bits and pieces. A certain scent, a touch, would trigger some memory, send her reeling.
She was a person who craved physical contact. Before, it was the way she felt comfortable around people. Hugs, holding hands, something, something. She had started to avoid it, after a few too many little episodes. She disliked being viewed as something to be pitied, and she could see it in their eyes after they saw her panic. It was a crack in her mask she could not entirely repair, though she never ceased to try.
It was, however, unbearable at times. When she was younger, still living with her mentor, she would have followed him to ward off that insecurity. He was strong, and he had made her strong. He had always been there to support her when she truly needed it. He had taught her to fly when she needed to get out of the nest. He had created a powerful young woman from a fiery asylum escapee, and she repaid his efforts with her love and loyalty.
She was not seventeen anymore, however, and Germany was far, far away. In the night, in the dark, she would lie in bed with her large, warm dog at her feet, and press her hands to her chest to try and crush her loneliness, her weakness.
And in the morning, she will wake up, and make her bed.
She will lie about how she slept, and smile-- And avoid their gaze as she imagines their eyes taking in her scars.