#3

He took both of my hands, turned them over and gave each scar an anguished look. I know that look too well and I despise it. I don't need pity. I took my hands back but he was fast to grab them again.

I winced at the reminiscent but nonexistent physical pain. Images of bloody wrists flashed before my eyes, tormenting me. Salty tears dropped harshly on old wounds, but here he is, kissing the pain away, erasing the scars with his powerful feelings of love I never thought were possible.

For once, I was thankful I did not kill myself that day.