Scars

The Lefthanded Project

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Her fingers are like compasses that knew, without even looking, where to trace displeasing marks left four years ago. One by one, slowly, they touched the fragile dotted flesh on her elbow, down to her left foot, the three coin-like keloids at her back torso and that one patch of still aching flesh on her back head. As fingers trace them, her mind races back to that very day: a Chinese man holding a rose close up to his nose, a book she just bought and the white truck. Her reconciliation knew perfectly that it was a white truck, but everyone proves her otherwise. Those things flashed frantically in her mind, making collisions of unwanted images as her body flew and concur barbarically against the hard, heated asphalt like a pile of papers scatters everywhere by the howling November wind. Before she figured it all out; before she felt pain…

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