A Pack of Light

BATTLE SCARS

Episode 4: Battle Scars

ISABELLE'S P. O. V.

My room was a sanctuary, or at least I wanted it to be. Pale walls, soft light filtering through the curtains, and scattered journals lining my desk like silent witnesses. I sat on the edge of my bed, fingers tracing the cracked leather cover of the notebook in my lap.

The pages were filled with my thoughts—some raw, some hopeful, most a mess of confusion and pain. They held the story of my battle, the fight nobody saw when I smiled at campus or laughed with friends.

I flipped to an entry from months ago:

“Today, I lost more than my hair. I lost the reflection of who I thought I was. Staring into the mirror, I barely recognized the face looking back. Hollow eyes, a bald scalp, skin stretched thin like parchment. I don’t feel like Isabelle anymore.”

The memory hit like a wave, dragging me beneath.

I was back in that sterile hospital room, the scent of antiseptic sharp in my nostrils. The rhythmic beep of machines my constant companion. My head was bare, the hair I’d once loved now scattered in clumps on the floor.

I remembered the first time I looked in the mirror after the chemo began. My fingers trembling as I touched the cool scalp, the tears that refused to fall.

Nights were the hardest. The nausea that twisted my stomach into knots, the dry heaves that left me gasping for air. I clutched the edges of the hospital bed, wishing for relief that never came.

My parents were there, always, their faces masks of brave smiles, but I saw the worry hiding in their eyes.

Dad held my hand, squeezing it gently. “You’re stronger than you think, Isa.”

Mom wiped my brow, whispering, “We’re here. Always.”

But the strength I needed was buried beneath the pain. Beneath the fear.

I’d stare at the ceiling for hours, wondering if this was the price I’d pay for survival.

Would I still be me when it was over?

Would I still be worthy?

I often questioned my femininity—the essence of being a woman that felt so tied to the skin I lost, the breast that was gone.

When I caught my reflection, sometimes I flinched, like meeting a stranger.

There was a dark corner in my mind where I felt broken, incomplete, unlovable.

Yet, somewhere beyond that darkness, a flicker of hope remained.

I wrote about it in my journal, desperate to grasp something solid.

“Maybe healing isn’t just about the body. Maybe it’s about reclaiming the pieces of yourself you thought were lost. Maybe I’m still here because I have a story to tell. A light to find.”

Tears blurred the ink on the page.

The battle had left scars deeper than the physical.

But it also gave me something I never expected: perspective.

I began to see strength in vulnerability.

Beauty in imperfection.

Courage in simply surviving.

Tonight, I sat before my vanity mirror, its surface reflecting a girl still learning to live again.

The makeup kit—once a ritual of confidence—had gathered dust since the treatments began. Lipsticks and brushes were relics from a life paused.

My fingers hovered above the compact powder, hesitant.

A small voice inside whispered, “What’s the point? Who are you trying to impress?”

But this wasn’t for anyone else.

This was for me.

For the Isabelle who was still here, still fighting.

With shaky hands, I opened the kit, the scent of rose and vanilla filling the air like a promise.

I dabbed a little foundation onto my fingertips, blending it softly onto my skin. Not to cover scars or flaws, but to honor the face that had endured so much.

I brushed on mascara, careful not to overdo it, just enough to make my eyes sparkle a little.

Then, the lipstick. A soft pink, barely there, but enough to remind me I was still alive.

I stared at my reflection longer than before.

The scars were still there—etched into my skin and soul—but they no longer defined me.

I was more than the pain.

More than the fight.

I was Isabelle.

And I was ready to move forward.