Damon stood before the mirror in his bedroom, shirtless, his reflection staring back at him.
He turned slowly, exposing his back to the mirror.
His gaze locked onto the large scar that stretched across his shoulder blades, a jagged, pale mark that had once been an angry red wound.
It had been years since he'd intentionally stood like this, scrutinizing it.
The last ti he'd really looked at it, not just glimpsed it by accident, was back in Stockton.
Back when his fra had been smaller, his body leaner, and the scar stood out like a glaring wound on a boy not yet fully grown.
Now, with his broader shoulders and the added muscle that ca with his years of dedication, the scar had shifted.
It got a little longer, and the edges pulled along the curves of his back.
No longer did it look like an open cut, but rather like a scar that would never go away.
The scar seed almost smaller now in proportion to his larger fra, but it was still there, unmistakable, and impossible to ignore.
It wasn't just a mark on his skin, it was a mark on his past, on everything he'd endured to get here.
He ran his fingers lightly over it, his mind drifting back to the mories he tried to bury.
Back to the screams, the fear, the helplessness.
Back to the man who had left that scar, who had taken so much from him and his mother.
Why did I look at it…
It wasn't as if he'd never seen it before.
The scar was always there, faintly visible every ti he took off his shirt, a permanent part of him.
But he never gave it much attention.
Today was different.
The conversation with Svetlana had stirred sothing inside him, emotions he hadn't allowed himself to feel in a long ti.
As he stared at the scar in the mirror, her words echoed in his mind.
"I don't deal with it because it's part of ."
She had spoken about accepting her past, her pain, her scars, and how they shaped who she was now.
Damon wasn't sure if he could do the sa.
His fingers hovered over the scar, then slowly traced its uneven surface.
He thought about what it ant, not just the pain it had caused, but everything it represented.
The fight to survive, the years of fear, the helplessness that had defined so much of his childhood.
But it wasn't just about the suffering.
But he couldn't feel what Lana felt. He couldn't just accept it as part of him, as she had.
How could he?
Every ti he stared at the scar, every ti his fingers brushed its uneven surface, he felt the sa wave of emotions crashing down on him like a relentless tide.
Not pride. Not strength. Not survival.
He felt like a victim.
A victim of a man who had stolen so much from him, who had taken the safety and innocence of his childhood and twisted it into sothing dark and unrecognizable.
Hatred burned in his chest, a searing fla that had never truly gone out. He hated him.
The man who was supposed to be his father. The man who should have protected him, not hurt him.
But beneath that hatred was sothing even worse: sadness.
Sadness for the man his father had beco.
For what could have been. For the life he and his mother could have had, a normal family, a safe ho, laughter, love.
He thought about all the "what-ifs" and "could-have-beens" until the weight of them felt suffocating.
His mother deserved better. He deserved better.
Damon clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms.
He couldn't even rember the last ti he let himself feel this deeply.
The last ti he let himself confront these emotions instead of burying them under hours of training and fighting, numbing himself with the grind of the octagon.
He never even felt like he had been hiding them, as he never thought of them, while he thought of his father, it was always a fleeting mont... forgettable in that mont, but stuck forever in his mories. Continue your adventure at empire
But now, looking at the scar, the mories ca flooding back like a nightmare he couldn't wake up from.
The sound of shattering glass.
The way his mother scread, trying to shield him.
The suffocating fear as he curled up, waiting for it to be over.
The sharp, blinding pain when his father lashed out, the world spinning as he hit the ground.
His chest heaved, his breath quickening as he stared at the reflection in the mirror.
His body, now a weapon of precision and strength, seed alien to him in this mont.
The scar didn't belong on a fighter, on soone who was supposed to be a symbol of control and dominance.
No.
The scar belonged to a victim.
And that's what he still felt like.
He wanted to scream, to punch the mirror until it shattered, to release the rage and helplessness that had been bottled up inside him for so long.
But he didn't.
He couldn't.
Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, the room closing in around him.
He hated the man who did this to him. But more than that, he hated that the man still had power over him.
Even after all these years.
Even after Damon had built himself into soone stronger, soone who could never be hurt like that again.
Tears welled in his eyes, blurring his vision, but he didn't let them fall.
He wouldn't give his father that satisfaction, even now.
Damon wanted to accept it, to move on, to let it be "just a scar."
But it wasn't.
It was a mark of everything he had lost. Of everything he still carried.
And he didn't know if he'd ever be free of it.
He took a step back from the mirror, his reflection feeling foreign, like he was looking at soone else entirely.
Regret washed over him, heavy and suffocating.
Why did he tell her? Why did he let the words spill out, unguarded, raw?
Why did he open up that scar, the one he worked so hard to keep buried beneath layers of strength and silence?
It didn't make sense.
Hours ago, he was happy, genuinely happy.
He'd laughed, smiled, felt the warmth of Svetlana's presence like a shield against the darker corners of his mind.
So why wasn't he smiling now?
His gaze returned to the mirror, and he felt small. Diminished. Like the scar wasn't just on his back but carved into his very being, a wound that had never really healed.
And honestly... it felt like kf never would.
Reviews
All reviews (0)