Her Scars: A Short Story

A splash of cold water hit Kelly’s face with a jolt. It felt good, reminded her that she was still alive. The bathroom tile felt cool to the touch, and she placed my wet palms on the counter for balance. A thin raised line etched down her finger, and she wondered how long the scar would last. It was ugly. A constant reminder of the past year. How could a single year of a person’s life leave such scars? But it wasn’t the surface wounds she was worried about; it was the deeper kind. The permanent kind.

First, the author uses descriptive imagery to form a strong image in the reader’s head. The text states, “The scars were thick ridges, alternating bright pink and white, in stripes up from her neck.”(pg.16) The author describes a girl she met in the mental hospital. By the vivid words

The door slammed shut and we were both on the verge of tears; as I held her tightly in my arms we discussed everything that had just unfolded. What would become of our relationship? Emma's parents despised me as if their daughter was in love with Satan himself. We were both from completely different ends of society, but our love was inseparable, or so it seemed. Emma explained that even though she loved me we were just too different. After hours of conversation, we agreed to meet at a nearby restaurant the following day to discuss the future of our love. As I continue to reminisce, I lie wide awake, in a paralysed state, worrying about what tomorrow may bring. I know deep down in my heart that once that shining star dies so will I. Without her, I have no reason to live, no reason to continue fighting the cruel battle of life. Thus, if I lose my one and only angel there will be no hope, no light just a deep dark meaningless void filled with despair and suffering. However, despite the heartbreak and lack of light, I continue to cling to that last bit of thread, that last bit of hope, that last bit of

In late May during the wee hours of the morning a rapid knock at the door woke Anna from another horrible nightmare. She sat straight swimming in her bed, crying, and drowning in the torrent of blankets. Suddenly there was a second knock, but before she could completely rub the sleep from her eyes the door was opened and in stepped a very thin, tall stranger with soft curly dark brown hair and golden eyes hidden behind spectacles.

The large cut on the right side of my forehead had begun to bleed again; my own blood threatening to choke me. “Calm down its ok. You're going through a rough phase that's all. Try to get some rest,” was all the comfort dad could manage before choking up into tears. He turned away as streaks of auburn curls lightly brushed against me, the owner tending to my wound. Rest, he says; not so easy when every time your eyes droop, the dreams begin. They have been getting worse, the closer I become in finding a way to bring her

He cried on my shoulder that morning in his hospital room when he saw himself in the mirror for the first time. The right side of his handsome face sagged, and he couldn't open his drooping eye. He didn't cry because of vanity, but rather because the image looking back at him represented a lost way of life.

Inside the small house it was pitch black and completely silent. So dark, in fact, that one could not see their own hand in front of their face. The deeper into the house, the darker it became. Now into the family room and up the stairs.A distinct sound of scratching emanated from the door at the end of the hall. Inside, the room seemed to belong to a young girl, but only because the little girl nestled in bed deemed it so.

Gasping for air, and pushing an invisible ‘something’ away from her, Charity sat up with a start, gulping air into her lungs. It felt as if her breath was suddenly squished out of her; however, it was not a scary feeling. She remembered a dark shadow hovering over her, then consuming her, momentarily smothering her. At first, the shadow radiated love, compassion, and understanding- feelings that returned once she could breathe again.

One night, thoroughly past her bedtime, Georgiana crept stealthily downstairs to sneak a bite of pie, even though her mother would never approve. She immediately realized a heavy drape of desolation. The only noise was her heart beating to the rapid rhythm of the twitching fan. Georgiana thought that no one would be awake at one in the morning. She slipped through the doorway into the kitchen. For an instant, her heart stopped. A dreadful sight stood in her way. An innocent and isolated individual lay with his hand grasping for life, but it was already over. Taking a step back, she

She looked at the child, safely in her arms, breathing steadily. She looked at the man, then turned her head at the semi. The semi woman had no chance. She cared for the child, even when it ended her own life. She cradled the child in her arms, quietly praying that he didn’t what had become of his mother. She didn’t know that the child was hanging onto her arm, sobbing into her sleeve. The warm, wet tears on her shirt had brought something out of her. She broke down in the middle of the road. She cried into the bright blue coat of the little boy. He was tightly holding his Teddy bear when she had grabbed him, but when she looked down, he was no longer in possession of such an innocent creature. He dropped it when she had set him on the ground. She stood up, looked at the burning car and semi, and realized that she had saved a person, but she was mostly proud at the fact that she had saved a child, no older than eight years. The police took her, the man, and the child into custody. She walked to the ambulance with the help of an officer. The girl had been silent from the moment that she had put her earbuds in. She hadn’t spoken a single word. Not a single

Although the physical abuse left scars, the verbal abuse was frequently thrown at her. Whether it was from her father, or her classmates she is consistently reminded what an outsider she was.

“Fine,” she looked up as a man with a scar running down his cheek smiled sinisterly. She didn’t trust him, she moved to try to get out of his reach but he pulled his arm out. Her eyes widened in horror as his fist came forward, she had stopped crying, watching the fist as if it was coming at her slowly. When it hit her face she barely registered it, it didn’t hurt, only stung and sent a shock through her body. Another fist came, then another. Her vision was going blurry, she heard them say something but she couldn’t make out what it was as her body fell limp against the seat and her eyes shut, unable to handle the pain in her

Being forced to believe in something that you don’t believe in, looked at as nothing but property, and beaten are some events that some humans don’t want to be put through. Written by Ellen Hopkins, Burned, is a make believe novel that follows Pattyn Von Stratten, through her ups and downs as she struggles to find who she really is. Through all the uphill battles she thought that she found it, but always questioned herself if she found the new Pattyn.

in a long black coat, stood a man – his eyes pierced her skin as he

I remember holding her hands as a child, how delicate and soft they seemed and yet that never made them seem any less worn or sturdy. Her hands told stories of different times, of different worlds and hardships. She had grown up worlds away from me, in a different land, at a different time, in an era and a life that I would never know.