On her forearm there was a raised shiny, thick scar like a strip of satin ribbon ending in a point - I wanted to touch it because it looked so smooth. "What's that?" I asked as she pulled my shirt over my head. "Wha's wha, chile?" she answered in her gravelly voice, which often left off the last sound of each word she spoke. I ran my fingers along the long, pink mark, so prominent against her dark brown skin; I watched the scar wrinkle as I slid my fingers down its length. "Oh dat's where ma mean ole daddy cut me wit his huntin knife - he was a mean man when he drinked." Even though I was a young child, I can still remember how those words slashed through my mind trying to imagine what it meant to have a father who would cut his own child.
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