Touch (632 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1.95 on 25 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Imperative Bullshit (View user info) at 2007-10-24 14:26:38 EDT
A little something I'm working on for my class...
I felt a small finger poke my arm. It was timid and forceful. Squinting in the glare of the sun, I looked up at my five year old niece, Addie, who stood over the lounge chair I was spread out on. We were at her house waiting for a barbeque to start and I was trying to take advantage of the last remaining sunlight of the day. The smell from the grill lingered across the back porch every now and then making my stomach growl with hunger. My two brothers towered over the grill, arguing over the placement of the meat on the grill. They both considered themselves experts in all things grilled and shared opposing viewpoints about positioning etiquette. Their wives, my unfortunately perky sister-in-laws, were giggling and shouting from the kitchen. Addie was the first and only child in her generation. Happy to be thoroughly spoiled, thoroughly admired, thoroughly loved by every member of our family, Addie was used to wanting something and getting it. Without a word, she climbed onto my lap, moving my legs together to create a makeshift chair. Softly, she put her hand across my bare stomach. Running her hand along the bumpy tracks on my stomach, she watched me carefully, her suspicious eyebrows raised in question.
"Do they hurt?" she asked.
I shook my head and ran my own hand over my stomach. "No. No, they don't hurt."
"Did they?"
"At one time."
Addie leaned her face close to mine and whispered, "Who did it?"
I sighed. "I did, Addie."
Yes, I was responsible. I was the one who, at the age of six, climbed onto my grandmother's stove to taste her soup. I thought it needed more salt, I had told her later. I was the one who caught my shoelace on the handle of the cupboard. I was the one who stupidly grabbed the oversized pot for balance. I was the one who crashed to the floor seconds before the boiling liquid poured over my abdomen and legs, blanketing my body in dense ferocious pain. The scars, though less noticeable than they once were, are still there, splintering from my navel down to my thighs.
Years ago, the red-rimmed and bloated appearance of my scars faded into chalk-white hills snaking, twisted and oblong, over the contours of my body. Most nights, I would close my eyes and run a hand over them, picturing the lines folding and swirling into images, old and new. There are so many things I've found in the folds and swells. A sunrise. An island. A couple kissing. The wrinkled face of my grandmother.
My only flaw, Grandpa once told me, as if that explained why he could never hug me. I'd try to climb into his lap like I remembered doing before the accident, but he'd tenderly nudge me away, clapping me gently on the back in the same way he greeted my brothers. Once I lifted my shirt to show him a small glimpse of my stomach, pointing to the pile of scars near my side. There's your pipe, I told him. See the smoke billowing out, up into my belly button? Visibly horrified, he pulled my shirt down over my waist and turned away his pale, sickened face.
Grandma watched us from the kitchen doorway, tears in her eyes, and called me to help her peel potatoes. When she had come into the kitchen the day of the accident and saw me sprawled across her blue tiled floor, she had immediately filled a bucket with cold water and poured it over me. Together, we heard the sizzle of my skin, as hot turned cold, and watched the red blisters grow and burst. Taking the edge of my sundress, she ripped it off, but the cheap fabric had already melted on to my body, and deep layers of skin tore off with my yellow dress. Speechless, she could only stare at me writhing in pain on the cold floor. Every inch of my skin burned and scalded, red and raw.
At her tiny round table, I dropped the potato peeler and lifted my shorts to reveal the lily I found on my thigh for her. She smiled, softly caressing the white curves of its petals, telling me in a whisper that it was beautiful.
And the scars were beautiful. They were a Jackson Pollack painting, of my own creation. My skin mottled and buckled until the conformity of line and color warped. Every white was a shade different than the one laying next to it. Each line bowing, collapsing, swelling, running together in a jumbled confusion, splayed across skin. I could trace the tip of my finger over my thighs and feel a cool rush of air pucker the skin. The gnarled skin near my pelvic bone reminded me of the streams of cascading ivy. No amount of surgery would ever make my scars disappear. Long ago, they had stopped being only a part of me. They were me.
The summer I was twelve, Mom showed me how, if I wore a sarong tied higher on my waist, I could wear a bikini. As she tied the knot, her knuckles grazed the scars and I felt a stiff tremble in her fingers. Nobody would know the difference, she'd proudly explained, stepping back from her skilled handiwork, rubbing her hands together as if she could erase their touch, as if my scars were something contagious. When she left, I stared at the mirror, running a finger across the twisting path on my thigh, wondering why she didn't see my scars as I did.
My scars became something people wanted to hide. Even good friends, friends I've had since childhood, avoided looking at them. At the community pool, when I threw down the sarong my mom had put around my waist, there was a collective gasp of shock that I ignored as I charged up to the highest diving board. I heard laughter coming from the girls - who'd never be my friends - and the boys - who I'd never date. But I only paid attention to the water and the sway of the diving board. When I finally dove, graceful, agile, into the pool, sliding into the water, I imagined there was a scattering of applause that had ended by the time I reached the surface to take a breath.
User Reviews
Submitted by forthewin (user info) at 2008-02-08 16:03:18 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Good job.
Submitted by Fey (user info) at 2007-10-30 16:50:41 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Surely the plural would be sisters-in-law?
Nemmind, I'm nitpicking.
This was good, and as has already been mentioned; stronger toward the end.
Submitted by sexualchocolate1984 (user info) at 2007-10-26 07:52:57 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I fucked a chick with serious body scarring once (or twice). Pretty damn hot you know!
Submitted by Lib (user info) at 2007-10-25 12:12:58 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by lover101 (user info) at 2007-10-25 09:23:26 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Merlina (user info) at 2007-10-25 03:49:50 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by yhywstudios (user info) at 2007-10-25 01:34:36 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by TheUniter (user info) at 2007-10-24 20:08:40 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
Submitted by skrapmetal (user info) at 2007-10-24 19:44:07 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This was very good, especially as it progressed. Well done.
I have an awsome scar on my head, but it is covered by my ponytail. Two scalp tears obtained during a rollover accident. One ook 29 staples, one only took 21. Jagged and unpretty, but until I go bald I'll have to keep them hidden from the world. Sigh.
Submitted by shadow (user info) at 2007-10-24 16:48:36 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
the begining was altogether weak, but picked up fast and stayed strong to the end.
Well done.
Submitted by rorrim (user info) at 2007-10-24 16:39:05 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Void_Where_Prohibited (user info) at 2007-10-24 16:22:41 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Deserves more.
Submitted by Void_Where_Prohibited (user info) at 2007-10-24 16:22:41 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Deserves more.
Submitted by beer-turtle (user info) at 2007-10-24 16:16:15 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Heh...it takes quite a bit to move me even the slightest so to move me at all and earn a coveted +2 not that I am totally stingy with em or anything, but I really have to like a piece to dish it out.
I have my own deal with scars...nothing quite so 3rd degree...but definitly character shaping.
Yes I do have a fondness for animals...not in the sense the unwashed idiots implied when I posted the pic of me and my dog.
B.
Submitted by Paralyzed_By_Hope (user info) at 2007-10-24 15:51:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
It's because _I_ kick a little ass, Chaos.
And turtle, I guess that'll do. I keep working on it. Fond of any animals?
Submitted by beer-turtle (user info) at 2007-10-24 15:31:19 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
moved me
> < that much
And that is a lot.
Submitted by ChaosJester (user info) at 2007-10-24 15:16:25 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Well, doesn't that kick a little ass?
Also,
Touch is *definitely* my favorite sense.
Submitted by beat_raven (user info) at 2007-10-24 15:10:21 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
From Brdn_Nkd.
"I also have numerous scars - I liked this post, 'twas nice."
~crystle
Submitted by Paralyzed_By_Hope (user info) at 2007-10-24 15:07:33 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by inion_de_trua (user info) at 2007-10-24 14:47:00 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
this actually reminds me of a few ideas i had.
i look for people with scars.
An artist? Wrinkles, scars, and imperfections, they make it real.
Also, FG and CapThn, I do try.
Submitted by Darth_Famine (user info) at 2007-10-24 15:06:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
very nice, reminds me of the scar on my arm.
flaming plastic, quite disconcerting to see your arm on fire.
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2007-10-24 15:00:15 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Eloquent.
I've got several scars, some from surgeries, some from injuries. All reminders of built character.
Submitted by forensicgirl3 (user info) at 2007-10-24 14:53:40 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Very nice
Again
Submitted by inion_de_trua (user info) at 2007-10-24 14:47:00 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
this actually reminds me of a few ideas i had.
i look for people with scars.
Submitted by HotWillie (user info) at 2007-10-24 14:38:33 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by wookie (user info) at 2007-10-24 14:34:03 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by DirtyHarry (user info) at 2007-10-24 14:30:13 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I've got a scar on my foot from a motorcycle accident that looks like the Nile Delta.