He emerged in the yard with his torso covered and disappeared into the bunkhouse, a sight that wasn’t unusual as he didn’t use the bathroom in this building that often. I guess now I knew why, but there was no comfort in the knowledge that he’d been hiding something as terrible as the mess of scars painting his skin. Deep scars, roped and thick. Some old. Some new. All this time I’d spent believing whatever Frank Crow and his band of cunts had done to him was ancient history, but some of those marks on his back were barely fucking healed. Rocco lied.
