charloft Let's talk about what you've done to your body.
List it all. Tattoos, piercings, scars, jewelry, and any other weird thing you've done to yourself. What adorns your flesh that sets you apart from all the other kids?
Just a tat, really. A sunburst around a pentagram, up high on my chest. Not much, y'know. But that's it. Oh yeah, and a palm's mark that's kinda like burned on my left shoulder. Doesn't hurt, just looks like it's blistered or something.
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Not how it should be. There should be a hell of a lot of scars; there used to be. Mangled fingers, cuts, breaks, tears, slices, bullet holes. Bites. Frigging hellhound ripped my chest to ribbons, too. Gone.
Not to mention thirty years of systematic cutting into me. My skin should be a freaking mess, by all rights. Cuts so deep that slices of flesh were set apart. Tears. Cuts that were made to bleed my body dry; cuts made to dig inside the skin and tear out the muscle from underneath. Cuts and slices. All sorts. My skin should be mottled with it.
Maybe if it were, it would be easier to remember why I did what I did.
Though I doubt it.
It doesn't matter, after all. The consequences don't change. And I guess this makes it easier to, whatever, get around without scaring people. Drive around in the classic car and fornicate with women.
Or whatever it is that I mean to do.
But yeah, my body's not marked by all of that.
At least...
Not visibly.
[/private]
Just a tat, really. A sunburst around a pentagram, up high on my chest. Not much, y'know. But that's it. Oh yeah, and a palm's mark that's kinda like burned on my left shoulder. Doesn't hurt, just looks like it's blistered or something.
[private]
Not how it should be. There should be a hell of a lot of scars; there used to be. Mangled fingers, cuts, breaks, tears, slices, bullet holes. Bites. Frigging hellhound ripped my chest to ribbons, too. Gone.
Not to mention thirty years of systematic cutting into me. My skin should be a freaking mess, by all rights. Cuts so deep that slices of flesh were set apart. Tears. Cuts that were made to bleed my body dry; cuts made to dig inside the skin and tear out the muscle from underneath. Cuts and slices. All sorts. My skin should be mottled with it.
Maybe if it were, it would be easier to remember why I did what I did.
Though I doubt it.
It doesn't matter, after all. The consequences don't change. And I guess this makes it easier to, whatever, get around without scaring people. Drive around in the classic car and fornicate with women.
Or whatever it is that I mean to do.
But yeah, my body's not marked by all of that.
At least...
Not visibly.
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