"And I'm sorry, but until you've been ritually tortured and sacrificed... no. We all haven't."

I run my finger along the scar, feeling the smoothness of it and it brings back so many memories of my own scars. You can't see them anymore, but I know they're there, metaphorical as they are each one is a memory carved into my flesh of the monster I am. Somehow, I don't see her scars quite the same way. They don't make her monstrous, just that she's been hurt.

"Then he's monstrous, not you," I say. I could match that story with one of my own. My own "father" shot me as I fled, but I am fucked up and I don't want to make that parallel between us. I know monsters and she isn't one.

"Besides. They look good on you. Suit you."