Raised By Scar (18+)

The days were starting to blur again.

Not in that heavy, dragging kind of way but in the kind that made it hard to separate one moment from the next. Wake up. School. Smile. Paint. Come home. See Josh. Pretend.

It was a rhythm now except... today was different.

There was a kind of stillness in the house. Not calm. Not tension. Just the kind of silence that made the air feel like it was waiting for something to happen.

Josh was already home when I arrived. Shirt damp with sweat, earbuds plugged in, a towel hung over his shoulder.

I walked past him like always, heading to the kitchen for water. He followed.

Your paint's on your neck, he said, pointing.

I rubbed at it quickly, embarrassed. He stepped closer and used his thumb to wipe it gently.

Missed a spot, he murmured.

His fingers lingered longer than they needed to.

POV: The danger isn't always in the act. Sometimes, it's in how soft it feels before it turns sharp.

I didn't move. Maybe I froze. Or maybe I was tired of fighting stillness with stillness.

Josh looked at me again not like before. Not playful. Not brotherly. Just… searching.

You're growing fast, he whispered.

I didn't answer. What was I supposed to say to that?

He reached behind my neck, letting his fingers graze the edge of my shirt. I tensed, but I didn't pull away.

You don't even react anymore, he said with a low chuckle, Have I made you comfortable… or numb?

POV: Sometimes the body doesn't scream. It just submits, quietly, slowly and sadly.

Later that night, I sat on my bed and stared at my reflection in the windowpane.

It wasn't about fear anymore. It wasn't even confusion.

It was the weight of knowing something was wrong and still not being able to stop it.

At school, Anna asked if I was okay again.

I'm fine, I said. Same lie, softer tone.

You've been quiet.

I'm just tired.

But she saw through me, the way real friends do.

POV: Silence wears different clothes. Sometimes it's a hoodie. Sometimes it's a smile.

That evening, Josh knocked once and stepped in again without waiting.

This time, I was brushing my hair. He walked up behind me and took the brush gently from my hand.

Let me. I sat still while he brushed through the strands slowly. Carefully. As if he deserved to touch softness.

As if he wasn't the reason I flinched at every mirror.

He brushed and brushed then his hand trailed down to my shoulder… then lower.

Your skin is always warm,he whispered.

POV: When abuse wears gentleness, it's harder to name but not any less real.

I didn't cry that night, Instead, I painted.

Nothing fancy just black and red strokes, sharp and messy. I didn't name it.

I didn't need to.

Because for the first time, I knew what I was painting.

Me.

The version of me that couldn't scream but was finally learning to leave a mark.

Days passed.

Each one held a version of Josh sometimes distant, sometimes too close.

But never predictable.

And that was the scariest part.

One day he'd offer me help with my assignment. The next, he'd brush my arm like it was a secret.

It kept me off balance.

Made me doubt myself.

POV: When someone teaches your body to flinch from kindness, even safety feels suspicious.

Uncle Benny barely noticed or maybe he did and chose to look away.

Maybe that's what adults do pretend comfort means everything's okay.

I started dreaming again.

But this time, the dreams weren't filled with fear.

They were filled with versions of me standing in the mirror, painting with my own blood, screaming in a room where no one listened.

Anna invited me to her place that weekend. We ate biscuits and painted butterflies. She told me about a boy she liked someone shy and sweet.

I think he's safe," she said.

I blinked. Safe. What a strange thing to admire in a boy.

I didn't tell her about Josh.

Not yet.

But I wrote about him in my journal that night. In small, neat letters.

Josh touches me like he's rewriting my skin.

And then I added, just below it:

But I never handed him the pen.

POV: Not every invasion needs a weapon. Sometimes, it comes wrapped in whispers.

That night, he passed by my room. I heard his steps. Slower this time.

Then... silence.

He didn't knock.

He didn't enter.

But I knew he'd be back.

And this time, I was starting to wonder not if he'd stop, but what version of me he'd leave behind next.

That night, I didn't cry.

Not because I was strong but because I didn't know what to cry about.

Josh had touched me again. The way he does when the house goes quiet. When no one's watching.

It wasn't harsh. It wasn't loud.

It was just… close. And unexpected.

Like I was meant to accept it.

I didn't push him away.

Not because I wanted it.

But because I froze. Because I didn't know where to put my hands. Because I didn't want to ruin the peace in the house again.

POV: Sometimes silence is not chosen. It just becomes the safest sound.

Later, I stood in front of the mirror and adjusted my shorts. I looked at my reflection like it was someone else's same face, same skin but something was missing behind the eyes.

I touched my chest, not with fear, but with curiosity.

Trying to figure out what it is he sees that makes him come back.

Was I overthinking this? Was it just care?

Did girls in movies act like this too and I just didn't understand?

The next day at school, I didn't act different.

And that made me feel normal again.

Anna was joking about a teacher's bald head and I laughed for real this time.

My chest didn't feel heavy.

POV: When life feels too loud, laughter can be a soft landing.

We painted after school. I added yellow. She added blue.

The canvas was messy but it looked like freedom.

Like the version

of me I still wanted to be.

That night, I wrote in my journal

Maybe nothing is wrong. Maybe this is just what growing up feels like.

I didn't erase it.

But I also didn't stop thinking about it.