Beautiful Imperfections

She traced the scars up her hands and down her back. Those scars, that covered every inch of her body were a constant reminder of the tragedy from her childhood. She still remembered that day, crystal clear. That was the day she lost everything she had.

She remembered the screams. The screams that haunted her at night. She could hear them echoing off the walls of her room on most nights.

She remembered those few days in the hospital. The doctors and the kind nurses. Telling her that she was so lucky to have survived. Looking away from her when she asked about her parents.

She remembered hands reaching for her, patting her, trying to comfort her. But nothing could comfort her. Her parents were dead and there was no bringing them back.

She remembered the day in the court room. She dimly remembered voices arguing. Some said the men should be hanged, others disagreed. And in the end, they weren’t hanged. She remembered sitting wide eyed as they pronounced the verdict.

How could they? They had taken everything away from her. And they will walk away with just a couple years in jail. She remembered crying in her room, cursing and throwing things at the wall. Wishing she had died with her parents. Wishing she didn’t have to be alive in a place were tearing a little girls world apart called for nothing more than a few years of jail.

Fast forward to a year later, when her fussy aunts and uncles had insisted she go see a therapist. She sat, hands folded on her lap, in the therapist’s office, waiting for her turn. Soon enough, a lady walked up to her and guided her to the room.

She had expected it to be very much like a doctor’s office. However, she was very mistaken. This was nothing like all the doctors she had visited. It smelled of lemon grass and honey, not of sickness and medicines. There were hardly any chairs, all of them replaced with bean bag couches. Awkwardly, she made her way to one of the couches and sat down, smoothing her skirt. She looked at the lady sitting opposite her. The woman had a pleasant face and short black hair that settled comfortably on her shoulders. She wore spectacles, blue jeans and a white top.

She found herself opening up. This lady wasn’t like the others. She understood her. She didn’t push her to answer questions she didn’t want to. She didn’t stare at her scars.

At one point in the conversation, the lady leaned over and asked to see her scars. An uncomfortable silence followed and she debated on whether or not to pull up the sleeves of her shirt. Finally, she pulled it up a little. The lady ran her fingers alone the jagged lines. Her hands were warm and soothing.

She held on to the temporary feeling of safety while it lasted. A minute later, the lady pulled her hands back and the spell shattered. “Carry your scars proudly. They’re a sign of who you are and everything you’ve been through. In this world of perfections, imperfections can be beautiful.” She whispered to the young girl softly.

As she walked out from the therapist’s office, she found the words playing repeatedly in her head, “In this world of perfections, imperfection can be beautiful”. She rolled up the sleeves of her shirt halfway. And she carried her scars proudly. She walked out with her chin up. And people still stared. Only, this time, she didn’t care. Because she was beautiful. Thanks to her beautiful imperfections.