She lied in bed on the cusp of slumber as her fingers moved down the length of her arm. It was a habit. Not one that spiraled from forgetting what was once there but more like one out of comfort. In bed, usually alone, she’d rub the shoulder of her opposite arm. First in small circles then down to the wrist. As she came back up she would take her fingernails and lightly run them over the flesh.
So it began as exploring her sexuality on her own. Legs sprawled open while she rested on her back and explored the myth of giving one’s self an orgasm. It was from touching her entire being, from her neck to her stomach and back up to her breast separated by this line. The line that was six inches long, right along her sternum and breast plate over her heart.
It was this same position, legs spread on her back with a man thrusting inside where her fingers just found their haven that The Scar came to be. One minute she was alive, then she wasn’t. It was her heart, the doctors later whispered to her mother. Her mother cooed over her hospital bed about broken hearts needing fixing while doctors coughed up facts about heart failure. Years of numbing the pain of her father’s passing with whatever powder she could slide into her veins between her toes was what did it all. It was what created this scar, this demon she carried on her chest like a badge of dishonor.
“They fixed you,” her mother smiled as she kissed her daughter’s forehead while the young girl wanted nothing more than to pull away.
She didn’t want to be fixed. For a long time she wanted to be destroyed and a disaster who would either in the streets like roadkill. The scar wasn’t one of tarnished self esteem but of shame, guilt, hurt, and self loathing.
Back to bed with legs spread wide, after she accepted The Scar as a companion, her fingers danced along this scar as she thought of all the heart beating inside her chest. It wasn’t her own, but one of a father. He wasn’t her father, but he was one who was loved like her own. One who made his family proud, just like her own. One who fought for his life to save many others. Her heart was from a man who wanted to give someone just like her a second chance. “He saved a life one last time,” the wife whispered in the hospital room that fateful night.
Rolling over to her side, she raised her arm above her head and began to run her fingers up to her elbow then down to the concave that was the out of her arm. Softly moving fingers to the mountains that she considered to be her breast, she acknowledged The Scar finally, and she whispered, “Thank you.”