I get on my knees in front of her and pull her body closer. With my hands around her thigh, I place gentle kisses on the scars near my fingers. I turn her body, replacing every painful bit of abuse with kindness and attention. “You’re beautiful. Your scars are part of that beauty, little psycho. They’re proof that you walked through hell and came out on the other side.” I kiss a long, thick area of raised skin on her ass. I can’t imagine what it must have been like, trying to sit down at work with a wound like this after enduring abuse to the point that it caused you to lose your pregnancy.
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