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Her hands are cold to the touch, a haunting, pale white.
They lay flat on her lap, still and disturbed only by an occasional nervous twiddle.
They are not the hands that I have known my entire life;
they have become something foreign, unknown.
These are not the hands that guided me when I was learning to walk.
They can’t be.
How are the hands I have known my entire life suddenly something new?
The hands that always knew which way to guide me are now still, unable to move.
Restrained by IV’s tugging and pulling at the slightest movement.
Hands marked by newly formed scars.
Scars that shouldn't be there.
Scars that I still hate to this day.
Scars marking an innocent person for the rest of their life.
Scars that bare stories that you wouldn’t be able to imagine.
Scars that show the strength to pull through.