Raised By Scar (18+)

I almost told him.

That night, after dinner, when Uncle Benny was in the kitchen washing plates and Josh had disappeared into his room. I sat in the living room, holding the cup of warm tea he made for me. My fingers trembled slightly, not from the heat but from the thought that maybe this was the moment.

Maybe if I said it now, he would believe me.

Maybe he would protect me.

Maybe I wouldn't have to carry it anymore.

But the words stayed stuck. Not in my throat deeper. Somewhere in my chest, where shame and fear press against the ribs like a second heartbeat. I looked up at him. He smiled gently like he always did, wiped his hands on a towel, and asked if I was okay.

I nodded.

And just like that, the moment passed.

I kept wondering why I couldn't speak. It's not like he ever gave me a reason not to trust him. He had been kind since I came here, patient, different from everything I knew. But maybe that was the problem. I didn't want to break that image. I didn't want to become the girl who brought pain into a peaceful home.

So I said nothing.

But silence has its own weight. And every day I didn't speak, it got heavier.

At school, Anna noticed I was slowly fading again. I wasn't withdrawing fully, but I laughed less. I responded slower. I looked tired even when I wasn't. She didn't push this time she just walked beside me like usual, giving me presence instead of pressure.

You don't have to say anything, Purity. But if the silence starts choking you, just know I'm here.

Her voice was soft, but her eyes held me steady.

POV: Sometimes, healing starts with people who don't demand answers. They just make space for them.

Josh had changed. Or maybe he was pretending harder now. He didn't make jokes anymore. Didn't talk to me the way he used to. He was polite, careful. He even kept a distance when we were home alone. It wasn't guilt I saw in his eyes. It was fear the kind that wondered if I'd say something.

And I almost did.

Three times that week, I started writing a letter.once in my notebook, Once in my head.

None of them made it to the end.

I didn't know how to explain something I barely understood myself.

All I knew was that I had been touched in a way I didn't ask for.

And now I didn't know who I was inside this body anymore.

At night, I stared at the ceiling again. Not to count cracks this time, but to count breaths.

One. Two. Three.

If I made it to twenty without crying, it was a good night.

POV: Healing isn't a straight road. Some days, it's a loop. Some nights, it's a war.

By the weekend, I finally found a little strength.

I took a walk with Anna after school and told her everything I had been holding back. About the almost moments. About the guilt. About how I didn't want to ruin what I had here by speaking up.

She held my hand the entire time and said something I didn't expect.

Purity, you're not breaking the home by telling the truth. You're healing yourself by letting it out. And if the truth makes someone uncomfortable maybe they don't deserve that comfort.

Those words stayed with me even after I got home.

Uncle Benny was seated in the backyard reading. I passed him, paused, turned back and sat beside him.

He looked up and smiled.

You good?

I didn't answer right away. I looked at his hands the same hands that made tea for me, handed me books, wiped sweat from his forehead after fixing the kitchen tap. I looked at his eyes the same eyes that welcomed me when I first arrived here, when I had nowhere else to go.

If I told him, what would happen?

Would he believe me? Would he blame me?

Would he still smile at me with those same kind eyes?

I opened my mouth. Then closed it.

My throat tightened.

I… I just wanted to sit with you for a while, I managed to say.

He nodded, smiled again, and went back to his book.

But he didn't leave.

And I didn't move either.

That moment didn't fix anything. But it gave me something small.

A crack of light.

That night, while in my room, I heard a knock.

I stood up to answer. It was Josh.

My heart skipped. What was he doing in my room at that hour?

He didn't say much. He just walked in, closed the door behind him, and sat at the edge of the bed like it was normal.

Can we talk?

I didn't know what to say. I didn't want to sit. But I sat anyway. My body was tense, unsure of what this moment was turning into.

He asked how I'd been feeling. Why he was bringing that night up now, I didn't know. His tone was soft, but my body froze again.

He reached for my leg a slow, casual move that made everything inside me tighten. I shifted slightly, creating space. I didn't yell. I didn't fight. I just moved.

That movement was loud enough.

He stopped,Stood, Left.

And I sat there not knowing whether to be relieved or afraid that it would happen again.

I picked up my notebook and wrote the truth anyway.

The first line was shaky I didn't say yes.

The second he touched me in a way I didn't ask for, and now my body feels like a stranger's.

And I kept going.

I poured it all out not because I was brave, but because the silence was starting to rot inside me.

When I finished, I closed the book, held it to my chest, and cried.

Not the loud, dramatic kind. The silent, choking kind that sits heavy in the stomach.

POV: Sometimes your voice doesn't come out through your mouth. It comes out through your hands, your pen, your tears.

The next morning, I woke up feeling different.

I was still tired, still unsure but I had written the truth.

That meant something.

And deep down, I knew the day would come when I'd give that truth to so

me one else maybe to Uncle Benny, maybe to someone who would hold it carefully. Maybe to the world.

But first, I had to hold it myself