The scar

She has her coffee. It’s the fifth cup of the day. She needs it. She chose a cup, one in bone china; wide enough for her to curl and embed her hands around, thin enough for her to feel the heat of the coffee. Her narrow fingers wrap around the cup. The heat is almost burning through the thin china, into her skin, her fingertips. It hurts but she can’t let go. The painful heat burns its way, deep. She knows she should take her hands away, she knows she will be burnt soon. But she can’t let go. Convinces herself she needs the burn, just as much as she craves the warmth. She needs something tangible, a representation of her pain. Stubbornly she keeps her hands wrapped around the almost unbearably painful, hot cup. She’s not letting go. It can burn all it wants, but it’s only physical. For once maybe the physical will conquer the emotional pain. Perhaps she can blame the tears on the burning cup. She’s scarred but to outsiders it’s only a burn.
Mentally she’s gone. Her hands grasp the cup even stronger. Her body doesn’t want to let go.
“The burn. It will help. It will heal. It’s that warmth you’ve been longing for, endlessly, relentlessly,” the voice says in an attempt to evoke some clarity.
“Here you have it. It’s burning. You’re scarred. It’s done.”
All she wants to do is let go. But she cannot. This isn’t over, it’s merely just begun.

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