Story: Scars

So today's story idea wasn't from a pin, but I will use a picture that I thought looked like the girl in my story. The narrator is a young man.

            After taking me to the creek to wash up, Gwen brought me to her camp. “Sorry,” she said, “Tonight you’ll have to stay at my hunting camp but tomorrow we will go to my home.” I did not say much for I was still baffling at her appearance. I had never seen someone so dirty, unkempt, bruised, and yet so beautiful. Later I would learn that this was actually not bad at all, but in my former home of Dahlgren, such things were greatly frowned upon. One of their goals as a community was to purge themselves of imperfections. Her freckles, her frizzy hair, but especially her scars, no matter how minor, were all new to me. After our meal, I finally had enough courage to ask her about them.

            “Gwen?”

            “Hmm?”

            I swallowed and looked at the ground, “Why do you have so many scars?”

“Ah, that’s right,” she said, not sounding put off at all. “I remember hearing how Dahlgrenians had never seen scars before. Well, where I live, imperfections are valued and we are proud of our differences. My scars show who I am. They tell my story. I remember how I got each one and they help to remind me of my freedom.”

            I looked at her in confused wonder. She was so different than my people. She fascinated me and maybe she had a point. Being perfect was boring… and hard. She however sounded energized and happy… alive. I was curious and asked about a thin mark on her finger.

            “This was when I was cutting vegetables for my mum and the knife slipped.”

            “Ouch, and how about the big one on your left arm?”

            “Well, I was rather an adventurous child and I had climbed one of the tallest trees in our yard then fell and got a compound fracture.” After a few more questions, I became quiet, deep in thought.

            “What is it?” she asked as she removed her leg coverings, showing even more scars on her legs.

“I left because I felt my life so monotonous and dull, but I did not realize how different the outside world was,” I paused. “I never knew of all the things, amazing things, that our leaders where keeping us from.”

Gwen pulled her knees up to her chest and leaned forward, her short red hair falling over her shoulders. “My great grandfather told me about when he ran away from Dahlgren. He, and the other people, didn’t run away because they were bored with life there. No!” she exclaimed throwing her arms in the air and falling back on the forest floor. “No,” she whispered, then continued , her voice rising with excitement, “They ran because they wanted freedom. Freedom to be different, freedom to be imperfect. To get bruised, bloodied, scarred. Freedom to live. There, he said, they would almost kill you if you weren’t perfect.” Then propping herself on one elbow, she looked at me and said, “You were not bored, you were tired of being oppressed, and congratulations,” she smiled and playfully punched me on the arm. “You made it to freedom.”