#third-degree burn

[foxsmoulder]

Please do not touch this plant.

Hell’s official flower

[openparagraph]

Nine Steps Down

9.

Every single time, he’d tremble in fear when I reached out to touch him.  The third-degree burn on his right arm had faded long ago.  But whenever I reached for it, he flinched as if the skin was still a raw, fleshy pink, begging to be bandaged.

“Does it still hurt?” I ask.

“No.”  He shakes his head and answers in a gentle baritone. Yet he still bites his lip.

After this pensive pause, he says, “It happened too long ago to still hurt.”

The humid, sticky air clings to the surface of my skin.  Moonlight makes the green leaves in the trees seem like thin sheets of emerald.  Seeing this almost soothes me.  Then I remember it’s the end of August and 91 degrees. The heat of embarrassment that radiates from my friend doesn’t help either.

“It’s the pity, I guess,” he says.

“I’m sorry?”

“The pitiful look people give me when they see the scar.  It hurts more than getting burned itself.”

-Thalia Harris