What's Your Story?

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Your story began in a hospital operating room. You were only four years old. Before then, your older sister strapped you on her back and carried you everywhere.

"You couldn't walk. All you did was cry," they told you.

Your memory of the hospital is a bit vague. There were only a few things real to you. One of them was a boy. He was about eight. You remember his cast. His was on one leg. He sang praises everyday. Another real thing was the soup. It was the only thing you ate well, and it wasn't only the soup you loved, it was also the small stainless steel plate with a round bottom that it always came in. You still have that plate.

There was also the POP. The stitches. The calipers.

You was a free child. You never thought that anything was wrong till you got taunted by other children over and over. They made you believe it.

"You swing your arms well. You're good with the flag too but you can't stay in front," your teacher had said to you during the school's sports week.

She hadn't needed to voice her disapproval though. You saw it in her averted eyes. They said your legs were not good enough. You hit puberty and realised you couldn't wear certain clothes, or rather, thought you couldn't.

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The first decade and half of your life was one of struggle. It wasn’t a physical kind of battle but a psychological one. You had gone for this surgery when you were four – were operated upon on both legs – and you came out with five huge scars. Then your life began. Imagine when you get into a fight in school and the next thing the other kid says to you is how ugly your legs are. It doesn’t help when you are the smart one and they are feeling quite rebellious.

So, you lived with the frowned looks from strangers and taunts from kids. You eventually grew a tough skin. It was easier as a kid, kind of. Those words became normal. The good thing here is that you didn’t make it your normal. You saw it as a way they needed to express their displeasure.

Puberty came and you became self conscious. You couldn’t wear a dress you really liked because, well, your legs. You believe you're still self conscious but not like that anymore. You don’t even know when you stopped giving a care. Maybe when you became an adult and realised that you've got one life to live and that your happiness should be your priority.

The first compliment you got about your legs was when you were seventeen. It came from the students’ body president of your batch. You remember how he followed you around in school telling you your legs were killing him, literally. He could have been your high school sweetheart but you weren't exactly interested in boys then. You were more concerned about writing your final exams and making good grades. You weren't going to take chances with college.

Now, you just smile and say nothing when a nosy stranger walks up to you and demands to know how you got the scars. Sometimes when you're in a really bad mood, you tell them to fuck off and mind their businesses.

Your scars used to be more than that, they were your flaws and you let it get to you for a long time. Right now, they are just what they are – scars, and they are flawless. They are that beautiful part of you you wouldn’t want to change. They helped shape you into the person you are today. You wouldn’t trade that for anything.

These days, there are no more uncertainties. You no longer flinch when someone asks how you got them. You've owned them. You love them. They're a part of who you are and what you're becoming, a part you don’t want to change.


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This piece is a combination of fiction and non fiction. Something I like to call faction. I'll leave you to figure it out. Care to share your story?


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