story

I might be posting a story here... I might delete it before I hit the "publish" button. We'll see.

The main character doesn't have a gender. Well... that's not true. But by choosing a gender, I feel like I'm alienating the half of my readers who aren't that gender. And the English language has no pronoun that includes both genders. "It" I feel excludes both genders. So, when I can't avoid the use of pronouns, I'm going to borrow one from the Italian language. "Loro" is a 3rd person plural pronoun today. But in the past, the Italians used Loro, capitalized, when addressing royalty... sort of a "royal we" in a sense. Because I think so much of you, as you read this, that I want to use a pronoun that doesn't denote gender, but royalty. Because this story is for you.

Well you know what... it was a nice idea, but Loro isn't working for me. I feel like it alienates the English speakers... and that's a bigger percentage than alienating one gender or another. So... its going to be a male pronoun... mostly because... I can think of more guys who read my blog than girls. Sorry, girls. Its still for you too.

He crawled into the corner of the room, head sagging, tears streaming down his cheeks. He didn't want to carry it anymore. He didn't want to hide Them anymore. He took a shuddering breath like one who has worked long and hard to hold back the tears. He swallowed painfully, like one who has kept the tears in the back of his throat for far too long. His body doesn't like that. Tears are meant for the eyes. He looked at his arms, studying the curve of his bicep. It was strong. In his attempts to hide Them, he had done many things. He had used those biceps. He had made life better for others, because he could not do so for himself. His gaze shifted to his hand, palm down on the floor, bracing his weight to keep him from dropping facedown on the floor. He wondered what would happen if he did. Would he get up eventually? He flexed his hand, watching the skin stretch across the veins underneath. How perfect that hand is. Opposable thumbs, fingernails. How useful. His hands had gotten a lot of use. He had injured, he had healed, he had helped, and he had allowed them to lie useless. He had explored with his hands. But never himself. He had never explored his own body. Because of Them. Well, what would happen if he stopped hiding Them?

Slowly, he dragged his hands across the tiles, and pushed himself upright. The water streamed into his eyes, and he closed them. No, keep hiding. Take a deep breath. Let the warm water cover your face, let it make you forget there are tears there too. Tears. What are those? There's nothing on your face now. Take a deep breath. Clear your mind. Stabilize. Take a deep breath. But what about Them?

He kept his eyes closed. He didn't want to open them. Slowly, without realizing it, his hand moved up to his chest. It hovered there for a split second. Then, with a shock going through his body, his fingertips brushed his chest.

Now he could open his eyes. He looked down to where those hands, those perfect hands touched Them. His imperfect chest with rough lines crowding around the sternum. His fingers moved slowly, as if horrified. He touched a lump of scar tissue, and followed the jagged line across his heart, and down to his stomach. He put both palms on his chest and slowly dragged them down it, to the base of his stomach.

He remembered the appendicitis scar. He knew where it had come from. He didn't mind that one so much. His gaze went to the one over his heart. He remembered its pain, but he didn't know where it had come from. He looked at a short one that fit neatly between two ribs. It was close to his back; he had to twist a little to see it. A friend with a knife isn't a friend. He turned to a patch of ripply, discolored skin. Burns are some of the worst ways to scar. It has ugly shapes and faces that stare back at you out of your own skin, smiling and laughing and taunting you. His breathing quickened, and his face began to burn as red as the scar. Take a deep breath. Close your eyes. Open them. He looked at a swirling, lumpy scar. That one was unique. His father had the same scar on his chest. And his grandfather had it too. He'd never met his great-grandfather, but he guessed that scar went way back. His fingers traced the shape of it. Unlike the other scars, this one still hurt. When he touched it gingerly, he felt an arrow deep in his chest. The scar had been there on the day of his birth, irritating him, reminding him whose family he was from. And it was still there. And it would be there until he died.

He turned off the water, reached out for a towel. Cover Them quickly before you see yourself in the mirror. But... not today. What would happen if he looked in the mirror? What would happen if he stopped hiding Them? He was in front of the mirror now. Should he do it?

Before he decided, there was a knock on the door. Probably someone waiting impatiently. How long had he been in there? He had lost track of time. The knock came again, but no one called for him. No one wanted to know how long he would be. He assumed he could take as long as he wanted. That was nice of them. He figured, he could be nice back.

He opened the door and looked into the hallway. He didn't see anyone. But he felt better. He felt a slight breeze as the hot steamy vapors rolled into the hallway. It was refreshing, that cool breeze. He smiled. That person loved him. That person wanted him to feel the breeze. Thank you. He loved that feeling of being loved. It made him stand straighter. It made his chest tingle. It made his pain disappear. He closed the door again, and turned back to the mirror. His eyes were red, but his face was dry.

He lowered his eyes to the large towel wrapped around his body. What if? His hands moved to where the towel was tucked into itself, and slowly undid it. He braced himself for the horrible sight. What he saw in the mirror shocked him. The towel fell to the floor, forgotten.

His hands went to his chest. He repeated the motions he had made before. Palms down, at the top of the sternum, slowly (but not quite as slowly this time) bring them down that smooth, clean skin. What on earth had happened? Where- what. Wait. His mind failed to comprehend the idea that was slowly trying to form in his mind. Where had the scars gone?

Scars are scars forever. They can't just up and leave. And yet, they had. He remembered the tingle he'd felt when he opened the door. But... no. Well... maybe. Nah. He smiled. Ok. Sure. He would give the person the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps they took Them. Why not? They loved him enough to knock. He looked at his chest again. The smooth skin stretched over his pectoral muscles. He hadn't noticed them before. They looked good. He flexed. It felt good, and he knew he had used his muscles well. Hiding Them had also hidden the beauty of those muscles that had gotten so much use over the years.

Sorry guys... I wish I could go on, but... I stayed up way past my bedtime to do this. I'm getting up in 4 hours to catch a train to NYC. But this has been stirring inside me for a while and I just now figured out how to get it out. So this had to be done before I lost it. Goodnight.