gish159

Scars are tattoos with better stories. A fairly well-known adage. Have you ever really thought about it? Someone with a life so uninteresting, so devoid of risk and danger, that they have to go into the dank basement of some miserable, homely ex-biker who has lived more than they ever will, and pay him a week's salary at the factory he used to work in to carve pretty, fake scars into their unmarred flesh? Are their existences really so devoid of experience that they have to put an artificial symbol that someone else came up with under their skin, enlisting the help of a complete stranger? Paying him to do it? Fuck that, friends and neighbor

 Beneath the sterile white lights I could see every mutation. We stood by the convenience store's register desk, and while Bones and my greasy stoner cousin made smalltalk with her, I could do nothing but gape. It had been three years since I'd seen her. She'd been one of my muses once, although I would never have been able to tell her that then. Smart and bold and crazy. A stalwart individualist, and maybe better read than I. She was going to be someone. Hell, she was already someone. She was going to become someone more. Growing up in this shithole, I'd met too many walking corpses; living breathing human fertilizer just waiting for the r