Young Writers Society

*Edited, though I'm afraid I might have put too many clichés in while editing, if you see any hanging around, shoot them. Thanks to all who have critted so far, I really appreciate it.*

I touch the scars on his face gently, running my fingers along the crimson cuts. He pauses, afraid to move.

The scars drag the corner of his mouth up into an eternal grimace. His eye is distorted, pulled down in the corner. The lines and dots run the whole way down his face. A huge gash perches itself on his forehead amongst the brown and black that will never heal.

I can see hope in these scars. His damaged eye stares at me. It’s brown inside, not a deep brown or a hazel, or different shades, just brown. Mud brown, but not rich mud or dry mud. There’s no sparkle or twinkle, no glint in these eyes. But there’s hope.

I twist my mouth, biting my bottom lip, as I let my hand drop. There's agony there as well as hope. The agony of being shunned again and again. Of being refused, of dirty stares.

But that's not all. I can see, reflected in his eyes, the pain he sees in the gaze of his friends and family everyday. “They used to say I was beautiful,” he told me once. “Not any more.”

I can’t help but bite my lip harder as this comes back to me.

And I notice how he catches every twitch of muscle in my face, and interprets it. At once, as my teeth press onto my lip, there’s disappointment instead of hope.

I widen my eyes to make them smile, just ever so slightly, and hope returns.

My next blink, unintentionally, lasts a fraction longer than usual. Behind my lids, I can see his whole life, the life I never met until a few weeks ago.

I can see how he watches everybody. He sees everything in their face, because they can see nothing in his. What has been taken away from him; he envies. Anyone would. But the past three years, from what I gather, he’s studied everyone around him. He’s seen every muscle move, he knows what every expression means, he can guess what you’re about to say long before you say it. But I’ve never let him. I’ve always tried to come straight out, or I’ve let my hands do the talking, like he does.

I open my eyes again, a nanosecond later to see the hope gone again.

“It’s okay,” he says quietly. “I get it.”

His voice is still silky smooth. He’s learnt that you only need two-thirds of a mouth to speak 'properly.' He retains his accent, upper class and English, still. He can talk with me the same way anyone can. It's only when he shouts that the scars affect his voice.

But I've never heard him shout, I think as I look at him. Always, no matter how he's feeling, there's that underlying calm that I can see.

“Do you?” I say back.

“Of course,” he says with a nod. “It’s only natural. It’s just, these past few weeks I thought that maybe you were the one who would… understand.”

“I do understand. I do.”

“But it’s not enough huh?” he asks, and I can almost hear bitterness in these words. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

I frown at him, and for once I leave him to try and interpret it. He shakes his head, so slightly, to tell me he’s puzzled.

I put my hand back up, pressing it fully against his skin. It’s rough and textured, interesting, not like my own I try so hard to keep smooth.

“Of course it’s enough,” I say. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

His fingers hover in his lap and he stutters “I-you-you-”

“You’re beautiful. Anyone who can’t see that is blind.”

He’s speechless. I look into those brown eyes and I know what he is thinking.

Very slowly, I lean forwards and press my lips to his.

It isn’t a proper kiss. You can’t kiss two thirds of a mouth. But he tastes of rejection, and denial, and exclusion.

And hope, and laughter, and friendship.

It’s enough, I think.

I smile hugely for both of us.

“I thought you-”

“You were right. I’ve gotten to know you so well. And I love you.” I told him simply. “I don’t care.”

He pauses, confusion mingles with the hope.

“Kiss me again,” he says firmly.

I do, and this time, there’s desire, lust, longing, craving and it’s all in my direction, as he puts his hand on my hip and pulls me towards him.

This time though, it seems to lack something.

I pull away and look at him. He's confused, I can tell. I just told him I love him and now I'm refusing him. I want him to know why.

A few moments pass, and he can’t seem to tell what I’m trying to tell him.

“I love you,” I repeat, trying to make my point, trying to make him see that he's so much more to me than just someone to kiss. I press my hand on the less marred side of his face.

“I love you too,” he says, and this time he kisses me.

This time, there’s nothing there but pure, unadulterated love. No beauty, or envy, or anger. Just me and my beautiful boy.

And that’s more than enough.

I was just thinking how much emphasis in romance is put on beauty. Well, this is a bit about beauty, but, mm, well, if you're reading this, you'll know what I was trying to do. Fight the cliché! Crits much appreciated. BTW, as to how he was scarred, take your pick from any number of explanations.