A gasp fought it's way out of my mouth, though I tried to keep it in. "How did you get that? It looks awful."
"No, it doesn't." She sounded frustrated. This was clearly something that she had expected me to understand. "It's my scar. It's beautiful. It's me."
I found myself staring at her and felt my cheeks start burning when she suddenly grabbed my hand. With her thumb pressed against my palm and her slender fingers wrapped around mine, Mag traced the length of the scar, coaxing me into touching it. She gingerly uncurled her fingers from mine, and my hand was left pressed against her cool skin. She had goosebumps. My whole body felt hot. I became very aware of the sweat forming on my palm and wanted to jerk my hand away, but as long as I was touching her I could not seem to connect my thoughts with my actions.
She searched my face for some sign that I understood, but all that I offered was a look of terrified confusion.
She didn't seem upset. "Think about it, what is a scar? How does it happen?" She paused, perhaps expecting me to answer, perhaps for dramatic effect. "Pain. Something wicked, unimaginably horrible happens to you. It slices through you, opens you up, makes you vulnerable, and it hurts you, but then, naturally, you sew yourself back up. And this time you've changed. You're made of stronger stuff. You look different, you feel different, and that's how you keep going."
Mag's eyes burned through mine. She let go of her shirt, smoothing it back down and pushing my hand away.
"I am this scar," she said. "You got it?"
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