“You see this scar on my chest, the big ugly one?” A long dark scar ran across his chest, embedded within the hair and toned muscle of his body.
“Yeah I see it, what about it?” I questioned, tracing my finger along its surface, feeling each detail and curve with strong attention. It was ugly but it had character, the sort of appearance which made an individual question just exactly how they obtained the scar so they did not receive a similar fate.
“Think it’s bad? I’ve got a lot more my dear and most you cannot even see. They’re buried deep beneath here,” he said tapping his head with his finger. “And also here,” he continued, this time, placing his hand upon his chest with an open palm.
“That’s the thing with pain, it ain’t always visible. Sometimes it’s buried just underneath, while other times it’s been purposefully placed miles under the surface. Those are the scars worth learning about, not just the physical ones.”
I gazed upon him like a moth drawn to a flame and I realised that in an almost instant, nobody had ever cared to ask about my scars. Maybe that’s why I was so cold, maybe it was because nobody had ever tried to warm me up. “Yeah I understand, but do tell me, why do we feel pain?”
“How else would we write our stories and create art? We need pain but we don’t deserve it, that’s why.”