Learning To Love You More




Assignment #11
Photograph a scar and write about it.

Chris Moore
Seattle, Washington USA



The mortified look on my brother's face stabbed me as he pulled the knife back away from my chest and fully realized the extent of his game. His sparse, 17-year-old beard couldn't conceal his colorless face while his eyes screamed to me, "I'm so fucking sorry Chris". Blood seeped down my forearm and flooded through my palms, dripping into a crimson pool staining the splintered wood floors. My poor mom -- fresh off a days work as a wage slave to Starbucks -- rushed me to the hospital explaining to the nurses that her son wouldn't have been on the defective side of a gang fight. Trustafarian med students stitched me up with 13 stitches while I bitterly announced to the emergency room the idiocy of my little brother, "Awwww fuck! Shit! Motherfucking Cam!" Mom laughed off my screams while she conversed with the med students turned flesh seamstresses, apologizing for her sons lack of common sense when it came to handling 12 inch blades.
This scars short lifespan has been the source of many drunken conversations at college. It comes from when I'm dancing and someone traces their fingers down my arms, discovering a 2 year old memory. Depending on the level of intoxication, it came from a knife fight when I was defending my best friend or from saving an innocent bystander from a mugging on Broadway. My riveted stranger responds with a look of intrigue, as if having this scar and story gives me a pass into this persons clandestine world. Maybe they assume that if I had been there for their last trauma I would have been there to save them. Would I have been their savior? Or would I have continued my way meditating about the possible fates we could have created? My brother offers me a glance across the dance floor, our eyes laugh at this inside joke we've created away from the world.