The Portrait of Destiny Grant

I didn't notice it until later. All the cuts and bruises I got as a kid, I figured they were from roughing around and playing at recess. They were small and few. When my friends compared battle scars, mine were little and really not much of a story.

But now they do have stories. The brown and purple on my knee is from when a stranger told me to move it. The yellow one on my shoulder is from when I got my research paper back with red ink all over it. A red cut on my hand is from when my lab partner mentioned my posture. I've forgotten what a lot of them are from, but sometimes the memories will sneak up and the bruises swell.

Hoodies on top of long sleeves and long pants. Scarves cover my skin to hide what scars might be crawling up my neck. I grew my hair out long and stringy just as a precaution. It's hard to do in the summer, but at this point I'll do anything to keep this to myself. 

Kids can be so cruel. And if they knew what kind of damage they could deal to me, I don't know if they would ever stop. I don't know if I would end up dead.

Because of the length I go to to hide myself from the world, it easily becomes a topic of gossip. It's a vicious circle how it goes. 

I bet she can't go out in the sun.

I  heard she has that disease where her skin falls off.

What a freak.

At least this way, they can't see how they hurt me. Even if it's just little by little. 

It's difficult. To not let what others think of me determine how I think of myself. Standing with my back to the mirror, I strip down and assess this week's damage. 

I used to be able to do this daily, but it got me too depressed. That was about a year ago. My shoulder was splotched and swollen, bits of purple dotted their way all the way down my arm. I could barely lift a fork to my mouth for weeks. Slowly, slowly is grew across my chest as I thought about how ugly it was. Cuts scored themselves across my legs the more I hated myself for being like this.

But now I know it's not my fault. I blamed God and resented Him for a long while. He was someone I could hate back and not risk anything but damnation. But I began to realize that this is my cross to bear in life. Someday I'll own this and wear my scars proudly.

As I stand naked full view of myself, it's hard to remember that Someday. That special Someday is not today. God works in weird ways. It's my job to figure them out. This week I'm pretty okay. There're little circles of yellow on my hips and a few dark spots on my ribs. Some of them disappear as I forget where they came from, but a few of the older ones still remain.

I brave the next day of school with my hair in a messy bun and a loose t-shirt. I'm not comfortable yet to wear what the other girls wear. Showing off their skin in cute, flowery skirts and flirty necklines. This is the most revealing thing I've worn in a long time. I need to be brave today. Today I'm hoping for the fairy tale ending.

He sneered, he laughed, he said, "That's because I pity you! You didn't think I actually liked you? Now you dress like a slut and tell me this? Pathetic."

Like a punch to the face, I felt a black eye coming on, hot and puffy. I pinched the bridge of my nose as I tasted blood on my lips. With a gasp of pain I let go and I know it's broken. Now he knows. Now they'll all know. My shoulder numbs as the bruises run down to my elbow and I'm afraid to move in this tidal wave of pain.

"What even are you?! I knew you were a freak!" He ran. He's disgusted, repulsed, he hates me, thinks I'm filth. Just a pity card he can play.

At home, I assess the damage. I'm broken and bloodied. But I don't cry. I stand strong and proud.

These are my battle scars. 

I've survived.

And these scars will be beautiful one day.