As a small child, this slave was painted in scars. Like chalk on the sidewalk she was beautifully broken; rainbow dust covering the ugly ground.
As a teen, she was told not to show her scars, as they were unbecoming of a young lady; a marred gash in a porcelain doll.
As a woman, she was told her scars are all for attention; a scream in a soundproof room, tears under the ocean.
As a slave, her scars are part of her complex and unique story; a new ichor on a sculpture, a new nick in the wood.
This slaves scars are but small bits of a big picture, but as bits do they weigh on her soul. When she sees them covering her body she sees pain, and happiness, sadness and grief.
When Master sees her scars, he see flowers; a meadow filled with all the colors in the world swaying in the breeze. He sees the beautiful slave, the sad slave, the angry slave and the lustful slave.
And he still chooses this slave. My Master.
-Pandaish.
