1. The Tales From The Tavern: I Lust After Your Scar


    Date: 8/18/2015, Categories: Love Stories, Author: el_henke, Rating: 2, Source: LushStories

    prominent shades, “I didn't get a surgery so far, although it's been over fifteen years. I still can't entirely accept my scar, but it bears so intense memories.” She took a deep, and long sip of her Parliament vodka as though she was drinking water. Big ol' Tom uncorked a fresh bottle of the colorless spirit, raised his eyebrows, and commented through his thick mustache, “If you keep up the pace, young lady, I'm afraid my stash'll be empty before your story is over.” The scarred lady leaned back as far as the barstool allowed, and fondled in her purse for a cigarette. By the time she had pressed her lips on the soft filter, a flame came approaching to the very tip, provided by one of her listeners. She inhaled the smoke deep into her lungs, slowly tilted her head back, and blew the smoke back out straight upward. She leaned forward over the bar, her free hand playing with the freshly filled glass. “I know this is a non-smoking bar, but you wouldn't have my poor, attentive listeners wait for me to finish my smoking break, would you?” Although his grin was not visible through his mustache, one could make out the characteristic wrinkles in the corners of Big ol' Tom's eyes. “Let's call this an exception, shall we?” said the old barista. “Oh...” added the mysterious woman teasingly, “and I do expect you to keep up with my thirst. We wouldn't want the story to end because your stash is empty right about the moment we get to the interesting part, would we?” The girl with the ...
    shades took another drag of her cigarette, and slowly placed her head to rest in her left hand in which she held the glowing stick. She lazily blew the smoke over the bar past big ol' Tom. “Yes, memories,” she sighed, and removed her shades, exposing her eye-catching rippled skin malformation, “especially David, but I'll come to him later.” ------------- The hardest part was not the ephemeral physical pain. It was the more lasting psychic pain. It became a habit for mine to wash my wounds in front of the mirror. Whether it was my mom, my dad, or me who did it. I insisted on enduring the sight of my forever scarred face during the daily care. I hoped I'd eventually get used to the hideous sight of my forming scar tissue this way, but I didn't. What was even worse was to know that getting a surgery was simply not within our financial possibilities, so I'd have this scar for life. I was deprived of my beauty, deprived of my youth, of my once angelic face now completely distorted. Every time my eyes caught a glimpse of the irreparable damage, my tears began flowing all from alone. My parents tried to convince me not to wash my wounds in front of the mirror anymore, but I kept on insisting. I refused to have my wound treated without being able to look into that treacherous mirror that so mercilessly showed me nothing different than the true face of my newly gained ugliness. I hated to see it. I hated to see my face in this new, permanent state. I hated my face. But I needed this. I was ...
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