sitting on the orange plastic seat, an otherether
percolates into her pores one by one, like a canny bubble film, pixelating
and depixelating, writhing against impinging sound waves. she doesn't dare
remember being faeriekin; she only gazes at a thin silvery scar on the edge
of her right wrist, expression carefully blank.
the scar is lined with a faint pink, and glistens silver along its midline when she flexes her fingers under the harsh, dirty lights. when she makes a fist, the scar disappears into her skin like a coelacanth into water.
she has few scars, but all of them are shiny silver or shockwhite--out of place on skin the color of peaches and crafted gold. she takes great care to avoid drawing attention to them; she fears they reveal too much about what lies beneath her soft, human exterior.
they are old scars, from hundreds of years ago. they are wars and imprisonment and betrayal and...memories. they destroyed and created her, forever beautiful in the embrace of her glistering scars.