Scars
Her left eye was opaque, the clouded
blue of dusk when light fails and night arrives as an omen.
"How'd that happen?" people always asked, people probing into secrets
like their hands rifling your pockets to steal spare change.
"Childhood accident. My kid brother thinking he was Robin Hood, shooting a
rubber-tipped arrow into my eye," she stated matter-of-factly, having told
the story about a million times to a million probing people.
"Cause you any vision problems?"
"No" (you dumb ass). "I'm used to it" (I can see your
ignorance pretty clearly).
And she'd turn to go, to get away from prying questions, to get away from
people staring at her like she was a chipped vase in a garage sale.
They couldn't see her other scars.
Her forearms, always covered by long-sleeved shirts, hid a labyrinth of raised
pink skin from her teenage cuttings, trails leading nowhere.
And then there were the scars even she couldn't see, those incised on her
memories as if during lightning-struck eclipses.
As she started to leave, she ran into an acquaintance whose name she couldn't
remember.
"Hey," he said pointing. "I've always meant to ask. What's up
with your eye?"
She looked down and clawed at her forearm, raising welts. Blood started oozing
like spilled battery acid.
About the Author
Steve Gerson writes poetry and flash about life's dissonance. He has published in many journals plus his eight chapbooks: Once Planed Straight; Viral; And the Land Dreams Darkly; The 13th Floor; What Is Isn’t; There Is a Season; Have Not; and Who Am I Today.
Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author the oher half goes to expense se.g. Maintaining hthe web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.
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