Scars...

Because I am so incredibly attuned to detail in my writing, I notice things when I people watch. For the past two weeks, I have been observant of this boy named Samuel in my Media Ethics class. He is quite attractive. :D But I have noticed that he does not straighten his fingers on his left hand and has massive scars on his arms. I would love to ask him about them, but my introvert-ness will not allow it. I realize this may sound slightly creepy, but hey. Everybody people-watches. Its a fact of life. This is what I started writing in my class when I was supposed to be taking notes on my prof's presentation. Oops. :D

She always wondered, but never had the heart to ask, in case the story behind it brought up unnecessary pain. She shied away from painful things, from moments that could potentially cut deeply. Asking about something painful was not only difficult for the person asking, but for the one being asked, though she collected story ideas like some collected baseball cards or shot glasses. The scars on his arms bore the signs of grief. She carried her own scars, though hers were internal. Nevertheless, her creative mind developed all kinds of wild theories as to the origins of the marks on his arms. Catastrophic car crash? Fatal fire? Malicious melanoma? Possible situations flooded her mind like caustic chemicals that reacted and bubbled up into the most ludicrous stories ever fathomed. Her gazed flickered to his arms, ribboned with light purple scars, his curled fingers on the top of his desk. How did this once unblemished person become so damaged? She didn't think she would ever know.

I am thinking of continuing this in a longer story. :D