Scar - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
I froze when I saw myself in the bathroom mirror, my knuckles going white as I clench the edge of the sink tightly. I stare at my reflection, or more specifically my neck. A long jagged scar snaked down the right side of my neck. It was an unusual looking scar, an odd mixture of bright white and light pink. The skin around the scar was also slightly discolored, suggesting that it did not heal properly. I slowly unclench one of my hands from the sink and lightly brush it down the scar, tracing the jagged line slowly with the tips of my fingers. I sigh and avert my gaze from the mirror, biting my lip. It's been months since I had gotten the scar, but I was still unable to look at it for longer than a minute. I hang my head, shame washing over me as I stood alone in the dimly lit bathroom.
a narrow pillow of milky white bandaged below her strict jaw, the pad of her thumb smoothed over the streak. She fought the nervous swirls that braided in her weak stomach, trying to speculate about something alternate, something that had no recollection on how that scar was birthed onto her pure, fresh olive skin. But she couldn't, she couldn't undo the images that were embedded thickly in her troubled mind. She ought to adorn it, to never let a naked eye see it because if she did. She would be terminated
The scar was like a washed out fish bone on his hip. It was the only evidence of the long ago surgery that restored his ability to walk. Sometimes it ached like a ghostly echo of the knife that cut it so long ago.
The cicatrix was broad and rough. Whatever had caused this old wound was blunt and the injury had never been stitched or treated.
The cicatrices covered her wrists, an external voice to her internal anguish.
Despite the pockmarks from his teenage years, he was still handsome to me. Underneath that damaged skin was the bone structure of a god and his eyes were the blue of glacier water.
The scar lay fresh and new against his olive skin. It's pink shininess was shocking. He described the scar as his teacher, he said it taught him not to get caught next time, it taught him to run faster and to carry a spare dagger. He refused to cover it, he said it was a badge of shame for his failure. One day, I thought, that scar will look old and he will wear it as a badge of pride instead, an old battle wound from the daring days of his youth.
The scars covered his back like a hundred silvery pink snakes. It was a brutal reminder to him and anyone who saw it to respect the authority of the baron.
The scar had been pink years ago, now it was more shiny and pale. He would find his hand going there automatically when he recalled the accident that had taken his parents. He would run his finger over it's ridges and around it's jagged edges. He could of course have surgery to lessen the scar, but he wouldn't hear of it. He would carry it with him into old age, after all, it was all he had left of them.
It was a wide, sunken cicatrice.
I gently turning Ciara’s head to the side and pull the blankets and her shirt off her left shoulder, exposing the deep scar marks of fangs to the suddenly stunned group standing in the doorway.