I've taken to inventory. It's strange how my scars never seem to have much of a story behind them. I have burns on my forearms that I can't explain, and cuts on my sides and legs that have no obvious origin. It's not something that startles me at all, seeing as I can give them all dates, only I can never recall what happened.
I remember some of them, though, and the ones I do remember, I remember in detail. I remember the skew nail that tore into the top of my wrist, and the rock that hit me in the back of the head. I remember the doctors with rough and frusterated hands digging needles into the inside of my elbow, and how I tried to pierce and re-pierce my ears with safety pins, and once a paperclip.
My favorite is my stab wound. An inch-long bit of scar tissue just below my lowest rib where I was, well, stabbed. I don't remember the actual event at all, but I do remember talking to the parametics about missing medications, and I remember calling the police, and not being able to tell them where I was because I couldn't read yet. This is one of my only scars that I can't accurately date; the only one that doesn't have a number attatched, and that might be why I love it.
Maybe, maybe not...