those moments you don't forget

We were talking about pistols.  

He can do a twirly gun flip thing.  

He is so silly.  He even admitted it. Sheepishly, he had been pulling out a gun and holster to play with when I was busy.

So he could practice.  Grinning, he admitted he didn’t want to drop the gun mid-flip when I was watching.

He showed me his gun trick. 

I was suitably impressed. 

I admitted I couldn’t flip a gun, didn’t even want to try.  Didn't even really like touching the guns.

I told him I used to have an purple butterfly knife.  I could flip and twirl that beautiful knife.  I honestly hadn’t thought about that knife in years…at least a decade. I could feel the cold weight of it in my hand, I could hear the silent sound it made when I flipped and twirled it.  Unconsciously my wrist flicked, as if it still twirled the knife.

Startled, I looked at my hand.  My eyes closed, jaw clenched, I remembered to breathe.

Opening my eyes, I saw the scars. 

The smile that had lit up my face faded. Silently he moved closer, just enough that I could feel his warmth, without touching me. He never touched me without permission.

“I haven’t thought about that knife for years.

It...it was taken away from me.  

They said I’d get it back, but I never did.”

Silently he stood as the defeat flooded my body.  Without looking at him, I started pointing out the scars, quietly explaining how they came to be a part of me, my voice devoid of emotion. The burn mark where I let a hot piece of ash from my cigarette sit, burning, for as long as I could stand it. The faint white lines on the softest parts of my forearms where I proved to myself that I was still alive, that I could still feel pain, that I still bled.

I am not ashamed of these scars. 

They are a part of me.

They are a part of my history. 

A history that has shaped me into the woman I am today.

I was surprised that my eyes couldn’t find some of the scars.  My body had healed without my permission. Still I slowly traced the invisible lines, feeling the phantom pain as my finger ran across unblemished skin.  

Slowly, I looked up, dreading the pity, bewilderment, and revulsion that seem so universal when I share this part of my story.

I didn’t see it. What I did see shocked me so hard it hurt.

Sorrow, that I had been there.

Grief, that I had been so alone.

Sadness, that he hadn’t been there.

Tenderness, that I had been so fragile…so…broken…

Joy, that I am still here.

Pride, that I am so strong, bent but not broken.

Awe, that I continue to amaze him with my fierce desire to exist.

I closed my eyes.

I could feel the tension.

I didn't want to give in to the tears.

I could feel him forcibly resisting the need to gather me in his arms and protect me from the past he cannot change.

My eyes still closed, I could feel him, close, conflicted, not moving, not touching me, radiating warmth. Carefully standing outside my bubble.  Afraid to startle me.

“No more, right?” The soft words were so sad. so hurt. 

I didn’t look up.  

I couldn't look up. 

Instead, I smiled sadly at the floor, a slightly wobbly smile.

 “No. No more."