THE VOYAGE OF THE SCAR

The scar is livid, the scar is forever fresh. He plays with the line that cascades down his face. His slim fingers play and stroke the puckered, pinched moments of the line - he plucks a sordid tune from the scar. A sad song, but a song nonetheless. He smiles, a lopsided smile. Half his face is frozen in trauma, half is insane, the half-sided smile of the damned. His face is a badge of honour, a badge of piety, a badge of judgement. There are quiet moments when everything seems right, when the righteous walk within a hands breadth of gods, and creatures blest. Then there are loud moments when only he can be right, when only scratches and claw marks in the ether make any sense, have any value. He blinks and his reflection blinks back at him. The scar remains livid, yet passive - skin deep, yet reaching to his core. He blinks again and starts to hum the voyage of the scar. From the ragged, puckered start above his eye, to the sliding line that drips down his face, across cheek, touching jaw and throat. This is his scar, and this is the song of his scar. He whispers the hum of the journey.