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Scars

Justin Hunter

    She touches the bubbled, rough skin below her right eye.
    A rock, kicked up from the back tire of one of the 4x4s the boys drive after school.
    She lays her arm on the table and rotates it so her forearm is facing up. Long, pink lines. Raised skin.
    I thought I could juggle swords. Not swords, really. Kitchen knives. Like I was in a circus.
    She turns in her chair, lifts the back of her shirt above the waist. She can’t see it. Can’t really feel it. But she knows it’s there.
    No, not a belt. Well, it was a belt of sorts. I tripped in the garage and managed to land right on top of dad’s belt sander. And it had been left on.
    She shakes her head.
    My father? He always told me I shouldn’t have been so beautiful. Shouldn’t have been so much like my mom.
    Her finger hurts when it rains, but not right now. Not as she lifts it just above the table to show the angle at which it bends to the left.
    Car door.
    She listens then pulls her hair back from her face, away from the skin just below her ear. She bunches her hair behind her head in a ponytail, careful not to touch the purple bruise along her jaw.
    No, I couldn’t say that. My dad’s not like that. He’s just tired of remembering my mom.

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