[ WP ] For as long as you can remember , you 've had that scar . You stopped noticing it . Then , one morning , you 're pretty sure it 's in a different spot . You shake it off , but every morning it moves a little closer to your heart .

When I was young, almost three years old, a tumor medical professionals would describe as being `` the size of a grapefruit'' made its home on the back of my neck. I do n't remember anything about it, really. A single picture of me in a small chair in the living room of the house I grew up in. I could tell it was my house because of the tobacco stained walls, courtesy my mother. The photograph itself a dingy yellow, a sign of its age. 
 
 I'm 25 now and I've made up a number of stories of the origin of the scar. Ninja fight. Bear attack. Ninja bear attack. I'm weak-willed, so I would immediately give up its true nature. It was completely benign, but sprung up overnight for some rather unknown reason. I never really remember it until someone asks. 
 
 I went to get a haircut a week ago and had one of my origin stories prepared for when the hairdresser invariably asks, but she did n't. I was a little grateful that I did n't have to tell my story for the n-millionth time. It was a cheap haircut, so I left a nice tip for her consideration and left to my car. 
 
 As I sat there in the drivers seat checking my new cut, rubbing out some of the stray hairs the clippers leave behind, my fingers came across the smooth, rubbery scar tissue that sits on my hairline. Except they did n't. They came across freshly cut, prickly hair. I reached down a little lower, and there it was. The hairdresser must have been taken aback and cut my hairline up higher than normal. Not the first time it's happened. Something in me regrets the large tip I left, but she probably needed the money more than me anyway. 
 
 The drive back to my one-bedroom apartment seemed even lonelier having had human interaction that day, in spite of its insignificance. The deadbolt echos down the hallway when it finally gives way to my key. I slip into a warm bath and light a cigarette to relax and the rest of the day passes without effort. 
 
 I woke up yesterday morning with a throbbing in my shoulder, and it did n't hurt – at first. Just a steady pressure under my skin, keeping time with my pulse. Thinking I must have slept on it wrong, I reach across with my other hand to placate the sensation and I feel the smooth, rubbery scar. And it springs to life with a white hot pain. The kind of pain that sends you spiraling into unconsciousness, dreaming you're floating softly into the mouth of a very active volcano, all the while your corporeal body is writhing in pain. For hours and days and uncountable time, I slip deeper into the molten rock, my flesh now smoke, my bones charcoal. 
 
 And then it stopped, my abused mind and body freezing me on the floor where I fell less than a minute before. 
 
 It was a few minutes before I developed the courage to stand, and another before I could make my way to the bathroom mirror to inspect myself. A gray trail leads from the new scar on my shoulder, around my arm and winds its way up to my neck. How had I not noticed this? Was it still moving? The answer to this question coming quicker than I expected, I watched as the scar moves once more, and again. 
 
 With each heartbeat, it crept closer to the center of my chest. With each heartbeat, my skin grows cold, my breath becomes short. The mark darkens and stops above my heart as the room around me fades to darkness.
