Scar

Dear K-----

That scar looks wonderful there, rising thinly from your knee before thickening and knotting as it approaches the inside of your thigh. What makes it even more beautiful is that I put it there. I marked you with it; an unforgettable pronouncement. Even when those sad sailors see it white and gnarled beneath their fingers, you will know that you are mine. And always will be.
It was August and hot. There were three straight weeks without rain, turning the lovely suburban lawns from brilliant green to a muted, brittle yellow-brown. It was my favorite time of year. Everyone moved more slowly. People were less aware of themselves, less concerned with how they looked and acted. Much more vulnerable.
I had seen you out there, standing usually by yourself or, at most, with one other girl. You were always smoking. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to approach you, to enlist your assistance. I never heard you speak before that day, but I always imagined your voice to be falsely deep, the result of that constant smoking. As I watched you from my window, I imagined what your conversations with those men were like. I imagined what I would say to you. Nothing ever seemed right.
I remember that on the day before we met you were approached by two men at once. This had never happened before, as far as I could tell. You looked a little taken aback after the taller one said something, but rebounded quickly and accepted whatever proposition they had offered. I was jealous of them, as I was of all your companions. It wasn’t fair that I was stuck inside and could only look at you and never touch. It was just too hard not too touch. But I didn’t touch myself when I looked at you. I don’t want you to think that.
I will always love you, too. That’s something else you should know. Even from here, from this close darkness, I still love you. If you ever doubt that, just remember the scar. That beautiful scar. My gift to you forever.
Those two men, they didn’t love you. In fact, I think they probably loved each other. You were just their excuse. I never got to ask you what you did with them. Was it one at a time? Or both together? I’ve always wanted to know.
You could always write me back and tell me, if you wanted. But I imagine that that is too much to ask. I don’t think you like me very much. That saddens me. It saddens me like seeing those filthy men, those beggars and perverts and freaks, take you away with them. As if they could control you.
Please don’t forget about me while I am away. I will think of you everyday, every minute of every day. That is all they have left me here: thoughts and wants. You are in both. There are moments during the day when I am lying on my bed and staring at the colorless ceiling and thinking about you. About that scar. And the taste of blood in my mouth as I licked you. It was the taste of fear.
You were so good to me at first. You didn’t stare or laugh. You didn’t ask if I could perform, you just took my hand and led me back towards my building.
“I’ve seen you watching me,” you said. Your voice was softer than I’d imagined.
You had seen me. I was so enraptured that I didn’t notice. That’s how much you distract and beguile me. I was so happy when you told me that. So happy that we’d been watching one another.
There we were in my bedroom, the shades drawn and the lights off. You helped me out of my shirt and laid me down on the bed. You approached slowly, undressing as you came. Beauty personified. Nude, you proceeded to undress me, pulling my pants and underwear off simultaneously. I looked down and saw that I was erect. You moved beside me, taking me into your hand.
Not once did you laugh or shudder. The marks and scars did not bother you. I was so happy. It was beyond sex, beyond pure physical gratification. Far better than any late-night imaginings. I had to finish it, to bring us closer. I asked if I would touch you, taste you. You hesitated. There was a look of concern in your eyes. I told you it would be okay, that you would like it.
I stood up before you to take it all in, to see your beauty in its entirety. There, beneath my feet, lay my discarded pants. In the pocket was the Swiss Army knife that my father had bought me when I was 8. I reached down and took it from the pants, opening the longest blade and holding it up in the dim light from the streetlights outside. You looked at me, then at the knife. You couldn’t help it.
“I carry it with me everywhere,” I said. “In a city like this, you can never be too sure.” I smiled. You had never looked so beautiful.
I climbed onto the bed, holding the knife firmly. I began to kiss and caress my way up your right leg. I kissed the bend of your knee and looked up at you. There was fear there.
“Shhh. It’ll be okay,” I said, pressing the tip of knife into the flesh below your kneecap. You twitched and screamed out, but I held your leg there and slowly moved the knife upwards, applying more pressure as I went. I am always telling people that I’m stronger than I look. Aren’t I? You screamed out and kicked at me, but I know you didn’t mean it. You wanted this. You wanted us to be joined like this forever.
I slid the knife along the inside of your thigh, the blade about halfway in, and approached the soft patch of hair. That was my stopping point, I thought. I can’t go any further than that. The blood was seeping out onto my hand and onto the bed. When I reached as far as I would go, I pulled the knife out slowly, accompanied by more screams.
I threw the knife to the floor and licked along the open space where it had been, running my tongue from there into your patch of hair, feeling the wetness of sex and blood mix within my mouth. And I came again.
It was wonderful, wasn’t it? Something that only certain people can experience. I was not another John to you. I was someone special. I was the closest thing to God that you’d ever seen.
That scar looks wonderful there, rising thinly from your knee before thickening and knotting as it approaches the inside of your thigh. What makes it even more beautiful is that I put it there.
I put it there.