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The Scars They Don’t See

By @MeaningfulMee

The Scars They Don't See

She sat there, distant to the world.

Denim shorts revealing her pale, skinny legs.

Impression of the concrete wall that she sat on embedded on her thighs.

She held a *** in one hand, the other pulling at a loss thread on her shorts.

Her sunken face and flawless cheekbones facing the setting sun.

Her ocean blue eyes and the bags that hung under them, almost permanently were distant.

Staring blankly into the horizon.

Bleeding knee caps and black lipstick.

Bright red hair and pierced nose.

Sitting there looking like a poster for a vegan make up brand or a P.S.A.

He walked over to her.

His branded trainers kicking the broken needles and smashed beer bottles.

His hands placed in his jacket pocket.

She didn’t notice him at first.

His warm hazel eyes or curly black hair.

She smiled at him once she did, flipping ash off her cigarette.

His pale pink lips smiled back at her.

He sat upon the wall next to her.

She took a *** box out of her fake leather biker jacket pocket.

ushering him to take one.

He obliged.

She handed him a lighter and for a moment they sat in silence looking blanking out at the broken world that surrounded them.

Then she spoke, voice tired and wise though too youthful to be honored,

“It’s strange, isn’t it?”

She turned to face him,

“This place, this village.”

He looked at her,

“I guess”

She looked away again, pulling off her cigarette,

“Everyone thinks they know everything ’bout everyone, but they know nothing, really.”

She looked down at her legs,

“They talk, but they hold no meaning. They don’t talk about the meaning.”

He blow out some smoke,


He knew what people were saying about her in the village,

“Is it true then?”

She looked at him,

“Ya know all the **** ’bout your step dad and how he…”

He noticed the look in her eyes, he knew not to continue.

He already knew the answer.

For a while nothing but the sound of sirens and drunken men stumbling home could be heard.

“My mom’s kicked him out now. Says don’t want a pedophile walking round her kids no more.”

“Why aren’t you at home then, with her?”

The wind was blowing her hair off her face, exposing her expression.

It was lifeless, hopeless.

Her lip was bleeding, her black finger nails had picked layers of skin off of them.

“He’s not there, but what he did always will be.”

He couldn’t help but notice the bright light coming from house number six, her house.

“But she loves you, she kicked him out.”

He noticed the scars on her legs, clean razor blade cuts.

“The scars will always be then, you know.”

She had noticed his staring.

“But they don’t hurt like the ones no one can see.”

They looked into each others eyes,

“The scars that no one can see, they hurt. The scars that remind us of the past we’d rather forget.”

She still appeared emotionless,

“I know”

He replied.

She took his eyes off of him, placing them out on the nights sky.

He didn’t want to leave, he didn’t know what she’d do, if she were alone.

Her phone lit up between them.

Her screensaver, a picture of her holding a baby.

She looked about ten, smiling brightly into the lens.

Message reading “please come home darling”

From her mom.

They looked at it.

She swiped the message away.

“Who’s that?”

He asked.

A smile lit up her face, her emotion was back.

“That’s my little brother, he’s amazing.”

She looked at the picture,

“He really does love me.”

He smiled at her, looking at the new light in her eyes.

“I’m getting a bit cold,”

She burned her cigarette out against the wall.

“I’m going to go back home, in time to read him a story before bed.”

She hopped onto the pavement.

She turned to look at him,

“Good night”

He smiled at her,


She walked off, to the light of number six.

A tear ran down his polished face once he know she was gone.

He looked over at his house.

The middle class door step, security alarm.

His sisters bedroom window.

The nuclear family that sat inside, like a dollhouse.

From the outside anyway.

He finished his cigarette.

Then sat there, looking blankly out at the moon.

That was the last time she ever saw him, before his funeral.

She’d been right, too right.

It’s the scars they don’t see that hurt,

the scars that remind us of the past,

we’d rather forget.

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