Moira
I sat at the old vanity in my bedroom, studying the unfamiliar reflection that stared back at me. Had there not been a scar that cut through my brow? Was there not a mole that used to sit under my ear, in the space where my neck and jaw met?
So many little things that I was almost certain used to mark my skin, all erased, as if little pieces of me, my identity, had been slowly eaten away, exchanged to make room for the darkness that crawled beneath my skin-
‘Shhhh…those things were not important…we didn’t not take them from you, we fixed them for you….these things made you ugly, weak…we have made you stronger, better. We have made you whole.’
Yes, that made sense. Why should I mourn some hideous scar on my face? I am certain nothing good occurred to make such a mark. And was I tr
