3 January 2013
He always hated his scars, I could see it in the very way he moved, like frightened prey trying to avoid the deadly pounce of a predator, skulking through the shadows, always just out of shot, a dark blur at the corner of my vision. He hid behind sarcasm, messy hair and loud music, a furious front he had created, a mask to hide what was beneath, what he considered to be ugly and spoiled, unwanted, undesirable, like the thick crusted layer on the top of rotting milk. He had carved his own niche, all rage and skinny jeans, a young man alone in his own subculture.
There were a lot of ridiculous rumours about how he had been so disfigured, but I didn't believe any of them. And he didn't repulse me, not in the slightest. Scars are just traces of the battles we survive, each mark a reminder of a victory, that you live on, despite the world's best efforts. A scar always had a story and I wanted to know his.
I approached him one day in the university cafeteria. All the tables were full of students, talking exuberantly, vying to be the centre of their own particular group. He was siting alone, plugged in to an MP3 player. I pretended like I needed somewhere to sit, that I was alone too, when in reality my classmates had saved me a seat at the other end of the cafeteria. But I wanted an excuse to talk to him outside of lectures. I didn't even know his name.
"Hi," I smiled awkwardly. He gazed up from his book, suspicion in his eyes, and removed one headphone.
"Hi..." He replied, obviously surprised that I was talking to him.
"I'm sorry but can I sit here please?" I gestured to the empty seat opposite him. "The place is packed today and I just want to eat my lunch."
He looked at me for moment, as if trying to judge my intentions, then shrugged, "Sure, why not."
"I'm Rosie," I smiled, holding out my hand for him shake. He took it, reticently, with his own scarred hand, and shook it briefly.
"Marshall," he said bluntly before returning to his book. He subconsciously pulled at his long fringe, pulling it further over his face, trying to conceal more of his scars.
That's when he caught me staring.
Scars - Part One • Opuss № I