The Scarring Day

I was not allowed to eat on this day. Nor smile…or laugh. I couldn’t wear any makeup or put my hair up. I couldn’t wear anything but a blue dress that was silky and worn from past Scarring Days. The tears in the dress had been sewn and patched up and sewn again.  Last year, at my sister’s Scarring Day, I did not participate. It is immoral, what they do on the Scarring Days.

I was at the end of my walkway with my family behind me. People were out on their porches, all with paper crumpled up and poised to throw at me. I wasn’t allowed to wear shoes, and the sun scorched my feet and legs.

“GO!” My mother whispered angrily in my ear. She pushed me onto the road, There was no going back now. I began to walk slowly up the road, my feet burning even more. If I cried out in pain they would only throw even harder.

People began to throw the wadded up paper at me. They weren’t supposed to throw food yet, that would come in a few moments. Some of the people had written insults on the paper. I was supposed to read them as I walked. I couldn’t show any expression. All I could do was keep walking.

I got to the next road. They were supposed to throw food and small pebbles now, and they were allowed to shout the insults. They could be about anything. How I looked, acted, how I dressed. They could even be about my family. Even they join in on it. I couldn’t react. If I did then they would go straight to the final stage: The Scarring Stage.

By now my hair was filled with food and my dress was torn and ruined. I could see the end of the road. That was the mark of my death. My…inevitable…death.

I turned the corner, and they all pulled out small pocketknives. They came from their porches and began to cut me. They could slice me anywhere they liked. They just couldn’t cut my face. I couldn’t cry, I couldn’t try to run away. I could only take the pain for as long as I could. If I tried to run or showed any emotion, they would only cut deeper. They would cut deep enough so my soul would break.

My skin was a turmoil of blood and torn fabric. They had trickled off back to their porches slowly, but there were many of them, tackling each other to try and get to me. I remembered a poem I once wrote about this very day. I recited it in my mind:

The Day, the Day, the Scarring Day, the day I most despise.

That Day, That Day that Scarring Day, none should ever find.

Her Day, her Day, her Scarring Day, Her day was filled with dread.

My Day, my Day, My Scarring Day, My Day I shall be dead.

I saw a light. I did not know if it was the end or my end. I wanted it to be my end. If I got to the end, then I would be praised for having strength and be granted happiness for the rest of my life. I still would have the scars though. I would still have the memories. Memories of pain…and suffering…roaming in my head forever. I didn’t want the end, I wanted my end. My end came...and I knew the truth.

The point of the Scarring Day…was to make one feel weak forever.