Short Essay: Scar

There is a jagged scar near the inside crook of my elbow. It comes from the cap of a beer bottle. A very peculiar shape. More visceral than I would like. A bloodied caterpillar, with a fuzzed-out membrane that branches further than its putrid body does. Or some sinister, raised red Rorschach, assumed connotations attached. A piece of entrails that escaped out a hole in my middle. And while I tried to plug it up, it lodged its engorged self onto my awkward inner joint. Such an exacerbated pattern. And imagination. Of course I can’t rightly picture what it is after the ages I’ve lost staring into its murkily buffered edges. It still eggs on the travel of bloodshot up to my eyes.
As a child, I began to gain a consciousness of the damage it caused me and the restraint it held over my gaining of friends and developing of relationships. This imperfection became my source of so much malice and disgust, even at such a young age. Out of desperation and innocent ignorance I took a Magic Eraser to it. Diligently forcing the gray putty against the saturated blush. I truly believed the enchanted matter would eventually make it disappear, but it would only get more and more irritated. I lost a lot of childhood finding it still there. After my discovery of the purpose of household items, I remember dousing the tainted skin in bleach. I couldn’t vacate the consequences for more than a month after. I only kid myself now in saying that didn’t magnify its permanence or that the repercussions weren’t felt for much longer.
For years, I wore only sleeves long enough to shade it. If a situation arose where I absolutely needed to expose the sickening thing, I carried gigantic medical bandages always in tow. In the locker room before gym, I would shove my arm into the safety of the dark metal casing and eerily check for onlookers. Then would shortly emerge with a detectably renewed ego. Except for the interruption of a section of faux flesh, my newly unmarred appendage would come up for air; if but briefly. It was easier to excuse a bandage then suffer the looks of horror caused by my grotesque disfigurement. I relished in the wearing of sweatshirts, even in the heat. Developed a sort of affinity for it. It helped and hurt me when puberty struck. My insulters may have found less reason with my body all covered, but my self-esteem floundered constantly with my un-honed technique. I played a strong mental tug-of-war that I consistently lost. And always, the scar itched. Not a physical ache with need to be scratched. But rather the cruel tarnish branded my psyche with its presence. It became the constant reminder that the life I wanted wasn’t mine to have, could never have. I stood disfigured, blemished, flawed: exempt from the game. So I traced the sidelines with silent and unseen footfalls. Blotted out in shadow where the mark of a brute, and I, could not be recognized.
Time stretched away from me there.
I fantasize its sudden leap off my arm, to rid me of self-disgust and future embarrassment. If I ever give anyone the chance to see it, I seem to always be asked how I got it. I mean I too would be curious if such a vulgarity appeared elsewhere. I usually lie, giving a nobler or more humorous story. Like a fisherman would. I can remember more than I want to on how it came to be. So I push the inquiries away with personable untruths and the constant presence of cloth sheathing. Beneath the wretched material and mid my false retellings I feel it burning. I also feel the burn of the others as if they are being reenacted over again.