Body Horror

There was a strange silence in the streets of the city, and I was lost within this silence. Running away from some unknown storm, I always sought solitude, but this solitude was as burdensome and tangled as my body. My body had become a stranger to me, as if a horror was brewing within.

Even in the midst of people, I always felt speechless and alone. The world around me seemed like a body immersed in darkness, binding my soul. I kept looking for ways to escape this suffocating prison of my body, but it seemed impossible to rid myself of this darkness.

One night, when the streets of the city were empty and shrouded in silence, I sat in my room writing something on my arm. This scratch was probably the echo of my soul, as if I wanted to feel my pain by imprinting it on my body. These moments felt like a form of expression for me, as if my body had become a medium to articulate my horror.

Days passed, and the scars on my body turned into a story. These marks represented my pain and my silent screams. It seemed my body had become a mirror, reflecting the agony of my soul. I wanted people to see the scars, to feel my horror, but those around me—who were themselves blind and deaf—could never understand the depth of my pain.

One day, I decided that I would no longer allow these scars to burden my survival. I accepted every mark on my body and transformed them into a new beginning for my story. I knew that my soul would always remain free, no matter how many scars my body bore.

These marks are both an expression of my horror and a testament to my survival.