P.S. Listen to this song while reading, it's called No scars to your beautiful by Alessia Cara.
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February 2019 (Ghaziabad, Uttar Paradesh)
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Her eyes open at the crack of dawn, waking up is no longer the pleasure it was. There is a fleeting moment when she is whole again, but it never lasts as the horrors of her nightmares arise in the depths of her mind. Then her lids that were leaden with sleep snap open violently as if she'd been woken by the sounds of their laughter once again.

She has far long escaped the cell she'd been trapped in, the four dark walls which had stripped her of peace. But as a bird remembers how to fly, her mind still remembers the disgust of their hands. So, by the time her eyes are open her brain has become overwhelmed all over again as if it were all new, fresh, and raw.

Slowly and reluctantly, she blinks. Streaks of sunlight penetrate the window and blind her. She sits up, drags her feet off the bed, and rubs her knuckles into her eyes. She yawns while watching her legs dangle above the off-white polyester carpet.

It's like living in a nightmare without the presence of fear, for she doesn't fear the screams and the whispers she hears through  the night. You see she can't feel at all, her soul stopped feeling a long time ago.

She gets inside the bathroom and turns on the water. She loves to take showers no matter how cold the water is, it helps her feel closer to the beauty and the emptiness of the rain.

As she cleanses her body, she can't help but wince as the soap touches her scars, no matter what she does they always remain, forever embedded deep inside her skin. No matter how much they may disgust the people who see them, they only make her smile.

You see, they don't appear to be scars for her, she calls them windows, long and wide-open windows which allow her to see. She refuses to label them as marks, for they make her who she is today.

She draws out a long breath, letting the water consume her whole. It's still there, the hurt in her heart, no matter how unfeeling she becomes it always lingers behind, reminding her of what is and what could have been. This is the only part which she remembers of that day,

What she realises now is that, that was probably the day her life took a whole new turn, and out of nowhere, things changed.

She walks back into her bedroom. Walking to her closet, she opens both the shutters. She pulls out a black buttoned up shirt and striped grey jeans. She gets dressed before looking at the clock, 6:51 AM. 39 minutes before the therapy session, she sighed.

Going out to the kitchen sink, she fills a cup of water and downing it in one go. Placing it in the sink, she grabbed an apple from the table and moves on to take her bag and black jacket from the coat rack.

And then she was out, with the wind calming her body. It's unsurprisingly early and as she walks on the street, she can't help but look around. It's a twenty-minute walk to the clinic, she refrains from walking too fast, almost as if it might prevent her from going through the cross-examination again.

I must try, she tells herself, I must make an effort if I want to get better.

She thinks about that as she waits for Mr. Raghav Dixit. Leaning back on the couch of the waiting room a tiny trickle of humour seizes her mind as she once again thinks about his name, how does he find the strength to deal with the consequences of his name?

Moments later, he hurries through the doors of her office.

"Hello Ms. Singh. Sorry for the wait." He said.

He unlocks her office and they both entered. She sat on the much comfortable sofa as he slid onto his chair. She loves his office; it's probably because of the number of times she had been here that she'd gotten used to it by now.

It was one of her safe places.

"So, which colour are you today?" He asked.

And as always," Black." Is the answer she gives.

"Bad week in general, or did a particular instance induce this?"

"Well, I had that dream again." She muttered.

At this he leaned forward, "What do you remember about the dream?"

"Darkness, mostly. And then perhaps some screams, it's all fuzzy." She replied, her fingers racing the scar on her wrist.

"What did the screams say this time?"

"They were begging for help, some were in despair," she said, lowering her eyes.

"And who did you think was screaming?"

"It was me of course, I recognized it being my voice." He nodded and added a note in his diary.

"Okay then, what about the darkness?"

"What about it?" Her hands closed around her frame, as if trying to defend her somehow.

"Did it scare you?"

At this she smiled, at least her lips did, "Darkness doesn't scare me anymore." She revealed.

"Why is that?" He questioned.

"Why do you think?" She loved to twist his questions.

"What I think Ms. Singh is not what matters, what are your thoughts is the topic of this conversation." He replied sternly.

"Ok then, I think it's because I lived in darkness all those months, that made me feel safe in its presence."

"It is good that you find safety in it Ms. Singh," then leaning back on his chair he asked, "Did you think about your scars today?"

"I did." She said.

"Was it a positive thought or a negative one?" He urged her to expand.

"That depends on perspective, I myself, thought only of how many there were." She muttered.

"What did their number make you feel?"

"At first, I felt disgusted. But then they seemed to make a design of sorts, a type of modern art you can say."

"What did this art seem to say?"

"Why Mr. Dixit, it wove a tale of a survivor."

~theloner