I had a hard time looking. As much as I wanted to, I couldn't. I didn't want to see those scars. The reminders of the night I almost lost him.Yet, I need to see them, to see him. To touch him again, to feel him beneath my fingers, feel his flesh, know that he really is alive and well and with me once again.
I had been afraid to visit him, afraid to see him looking so frail, so... deathly, deathly... pale. This isn't one of those stories where it takes nearly losing someone to realize how much you love him. I already knew; we already knew. And it hurt all the more. What's the saying, better to have loved and lost...? Well, I've been dropping to my knees every day, several times a day, thanking God that I didn't lose him.
But yet, here I am, afraid to touch him. Afraid to be reminded. Afraid he might vanish before me. Despite his reassurances, despite the doctor's note, despite those pink, healed up scars. Or in spite of them.
Call me shallow. Call me whatever you want. But it isn't about looks. It isn't because they're big and ugly and... God.
He'd been in so much pain. He still is. I don't want to hurt him more by touching them. I want them to go away. I want him back the way he was.
Flawless.
Perfect.