Raw, macerated, bloody, oozing flesh—the telltale marks of a wound. It’s visible in the purest way; everyone knows you’ve been stabbed and that the knife that went in with its serrated edge was twisted to cause greater damage. It’s there. It’s obvious. You’ve been hurt.

Now, comes the challenge of staving off infection. If not cared for properly, a wound like this could kill you. Cleansing is painful, but necessary. The longer you put it off, the longer it will take to debride, and the more painful the process becomes. Debridement of any kind is unpleasant, but when it’s been left too long to fester, all you’ve done is complicate the situation. Any change in condition could very well be one for the worse.

Provided you work with the process, enduring the cleansing and treatment, applying stitches to close the gaping flesh, bandages and ointments as necessary, you’ll likely survive the ordeal. At first, people will ask how you’re doing, showing concern for your well-being. They’ll even be awestruck that you survived the attack at all, asking about it while they can still see the telltale marks of the wound and the stench of blood is still fresh in the air around you.

No one truly wants the gruesome details, though. They don’t want to know how you were stalked for weeks or how the warning signs were there. Instead, they all told you that you were being crazy; no one was out to get you. No one wants to know those things. If they do know, it becomes real. If they know, they share the blame for what happened. They share in the knowledge that they ignored your pleas for help, your anxious rambles from one place to the next, your silent praying that you’d make it unharmed.  Every single time you prayed to Nuestra Señora, San Cristóbal, or El Santo Patrón you made it … until the one time your name whispered on the wind caught your attention, and you turned around.

All the tales of brujería told you not to turn, but something inside you scoffed at the tales of your ancestors. Something inside you insisted that the only way to be one with the current culture was to ignore half of your lineage. No amount of trying to hide from it could change the outcome. No amount of hoping that no one would see it could change the blood ties to a people who are yours, whose history runs deep within your veins and then splatters to the pavement when the knife twists its ugly circle.

You. Are. Stabbed. You are wounded, but time heals all wounds, so they say. The healing is slow and difficult, but you made it through the whole trial that you didn’t even know you were a part of until that thing in the dark seized and mutilated you.

What’s left, now, is what no one wants to look at: gnarled, thickened, “new” skin. Yes, the initial wound recovered, but the body will never be the same again. You try your best to cover the damage and lessen the appearance of everything you’ve been through. You buy the creams and subscribe to various therapeutic techniques; all in a vain effort to erase what has happened. You never thought it would be you, though. You never thought you’d be the next victim, and how you’d hate that word.  Victim.  To be a victim implies a certain amount of helplessness or careless behavior, but you weren’t careless. You never thought of yourself as helpless but look at you now. Nothing will erase the event or undo the trauma that the body and soul have both endured. The flesh may be stamped “Healed,” but the memory still bleeds.

Out into the world, you walk head down. Every bystander averting their eyes as your paths cross. What was once worn as a badge of honorable beauty has been destroyed. The skin you’re in is no longer something to be proud of, but rather something that draws what can only be felt as pity. You know why they won’t look at you while they think you can see them. Once you’ve passed by, though, you feel their eyes dart back and their gaze intensifies as they wonder what you did to yourself to cause such malformation. Suddenly, the victim becomes the perpetrator and executor of malicious intent. Maybe you deserved what happened. Maybe they think that because they’re too afraid to ask for the truth or to hear it. What no one told you was that this superficial residual would become a defining characteristic. Victim, perpetrator, executor, malicious human—but truly, it wasn’t your fault. 

It wasn’t your fault you walked into the world with a particular look, a particular name, language, lineage.  It wasn’t your fault you worked so hard to fit the mold, but the mold just wouldn’t fit you no matter how you tried.  It wasn’t your fault the majority heard your cries and did nothing, or that so many people excused unfounded hatred, malice, avarice, and outright abuse.  It wasn’t your fault that one loud-mouth gave birth to so much recognizable, accepted intolerance of anything that didn’t look “like them,” sound “like them,” love “like them.”  Like them, Like Them, LIKE THEM.

Yes, the wound is healed. The tissue is recovered, but as a foreign entity to the body that was once so beautiful. Sharp pains through this “new skin” remind you that you were victimized. Sure, the skin around the scar tissue will eventually look at least a little more like it used to, but the scar itself will never be the same.  The raised lumps remain discolored, tough, thickened by no choice of your own, but you lived … unlike so many others.

You lived, and you are not “like them.” Small blessings.

Scar Tissue

Veronica Cornejo

Veronica Cornejo is a returning student from some years ago. She is currently finishing her degree in English education and plans to teach in the area once her credentials are complete. Creative writing has always been a passion of hers; she hopes to instill this passion in her future students, showing how the written word holds more power and influence than they ever thought possible. When she’s not in her own classes, she spends her time with her family and volunteers with various youth organizations. Life gets busy, but she always makes time for her passion: books and writing.