[ WP ] `` How 'd you get that scar ? ''

My hand. You picked a good one. 
 
 We were not very smart at that age. No one is. They think they are, but they do n't know shit. No clue what the world is going to do to them. No clue what they'll let it do to them. I let it go too far. I just wanted someone to see me. To tell me I was a good girl, to reassure me I would be worth something. Someday. Not then. 
 
 He knew this about me. He could smell it. I know he could. When we first met, he leaned in and told me I smelled amazing. I bet I did. Bastard. He loved being able to control someone. Even a vulnerable 19 year old. Well, he had me. Whatever he wanted, I wanted to do. I ca n't go into the sordid details, I ca n't let him win again, but I can tell you this: He did n't care who had me. Or what they did to me. As long as he could control everything. 
 
 After growing up with more stepdaddies than any one girl needs to realize life is shit, I found him. His slick, handsome smile, the way he said my name, real low, like it was his favorite word. After my childhood, he was the best thing to happen to me. I thought. 
 
 Ok, my hand, my scar. The one that will never let me forget. It's large. About two inches long, one inch wide. I waited too long to get it stitched, so you can still see the scars from the stitches too well. It looks nasty. I love it. When I told him I was leaving, after showing him the marks he had left, and pleading with him to see me as a person, he grabbed my hand. He said he always kept a piece of his victims. He took a chunk out of my hand, they were his favorite. That's why I fell in love with him. He would lay in my hands, and rub his face in them. He took a chunk of my hand. And he laughed in my face. Right in my face. He wo n't ever do that again. Laugh, I mean.
