Scarred for Life...

Through out my life, I've been known as an accident-prone girl.. Compared to my other siblings, I think I outdid both of them by being the daughter that brought back home the most scars and the one that constantly gets admitted to the hospital. What can I say, I constantly attracts sharp objects and rough edges to poke me in every possible way.

Today, I've added another mark to my fingers. I've accidentally slammed the car door on my rather-slow-and-inactive fingers. Auwwwch....! The impact was very hard and I thought that my "ranting kayu" fingers have snapped into tiny rantings. Luckily I had my 'Minyak Mestika' with me at that time.. (see Nai.. it does come in handy to carry it around with you.. ).

However, the bruised fingers are nothing compared to the scar on my right hand (exactly behind the palm). The scar has been with me since I was 5. Got it from the terrible fall I had during my first week in kindergarten. During that time, I was carrying a rather heavy bag (filled with toys that I took home from school - this is an entire different story that will be shared in the future) and was walking up the steep driveway towards class. Imagine a small kurus girl with a heavy bag on her back, walking almost 45 degrees to climb the great big hill and suddenly someone thought that it would be fun just to give her a little push. That little pushed had caused her to fall flat on her face and scratched her upper hand on the granite driveway.

I remembered seeing blood stains on my kindy dress and a glimpse of white bones underneath the cut flesh. Luckily my teacher, Cikgu Ruby, was there and took me to the school nurse. No bones were broken but the cut was so bad that it did not healed 100% and left me with a reminder of that terrible day. However, during that time I didn't mind the scar at all because it helps me to differentiate between my right hand and left hand (I was still confused at that time...). Every time nak makan, I'll compare both hands and and use the one with the scar on it to suap the rice. On the contrary, as I grew up, I became more conscious about the scar. Every person that noticed it will ask how I got it. It's quite embarrassing when you notice that someone is starring at your scarred hand, trying to analyse whether it is a birthmark, a scar, or a very bad skin rashes.

I have tried many products to get rid of it but to no avail. It is now hardly visible, unless you get a close look at it. However, the mark is still there. I guess I just have to face the fact that I am scarred for life...