The Scars on Her Skin

The boy sat in the hard, plastic chair much like the other ones lining the stark white waiting room. His converse clad foot tapped against the linoleum floor which reeked of disinfectant, the smell he had always hated most about visiting hospitals.

He fidgeted with his fingers nervously as his mind swirled with emotions that didn’t stay for more than a moment at a time.



Most of all he felt the fear; the gut wrenching fear that came with the stains of blood all across the front of his shirt. The stains from when he had held her close to him, her life spilling from her wrists and onto her shirt. Fear had reached into his chest and gripped at his heart, that heart that longed for her to stay, to please, just stay.

“Who is here for Miss Tollson?” He heard a gruff, manly voice say making him look up at the doctor who was dressed in green scrubs.

He rose to his feet quickly, before all at once noticing the expression on the doctor’s face. A deep, throbbing pain shot through his body and he found himself no longer in control of his body. He sank to his knees, face void of the emotions banging through his mind like a drummer in a band.

He could not speak, could not move, but most of all, he could not think. It was as if his mind had gone blank. His body was not his own as he moved, he barely even remembered the movements that he made in rising back to his feet and moving towards to doctor who offered lack luster sympathies.

“Would you like to see her?” The doctor question, but the boy did not made any movement to answer. He just looked forward, eyes dead.

“I’ll take you to her.”

The boy followed down the long white hallways, ones that smothered his soul and crushed his hopes; letting himself be led towards the thing he feared the most. For the fear was still present, even though he knew exactly the state of his broken heart, because no matter what, the sight of her…gone.

His movements were robotic and cold as was the organ that beat inside of his chest. Each step was soon forgotten until all he felt was the chilled air nipping at his arms that were exposed by his bloody, short sleeved shirt.

It was as if the cold had brought him back to the front of his mind, his senses finally taking in the icy room and the sheet covered table right in front of him. But it wasn’t just a table, it was a metal slab holding his beloved.

The doctor pulled back the sheet covering her body and the boy felt his stomach drop down into his shoes at the sight of her still slightly rosy skin. A shaky hand reached out, fingers barely brushing her skin before he had to withdraw it, feeling sick.

She no longer held such warmth and life, the life that used to twinkle in her sea foam green eyes, but instead she laid there feeling lukewarm and lifeless. Her skin felt different, even though it was the same skin that the boy had just early that day been caressing softly as they shared her bed. Her blonde hair was limp and matted with blood and sweat showing that they had yet to wash it.

But all of those observations faded away from his brain when he looked down at her wrists. Without hesitation this time he reached down and took her hand in his own, the tears that had been building in his eyes finally falling as they traced over the stitches running vertically from her wrist for a few inches. The wounds were still swollen and red as the white thread stood out against the skin.

He gripped her hand tighter as his free hand swiped away the tears tracking down his face that were soon replaced by fresh ones. He briefly looked back up to her face, the sight of her long eyelashes splayed out across her slowly paling face being the image forever ingrained into his head, before leaning down and lightly pressing his lips to her wrist, kissing her scars for not the first, but the last time.