When I look down at my left arm, I see six straight lines, one slightly in front of another. Hardly noticeable to the unaware eye, they appear to be nothing more than ordinary blemishes which seems to catch no ones attention but mine.
Each one representing a pain in the hollow of my chest so unbearable that my entire being becomes lifeless; numb.
The pain can give you the reassurance that you're still alive. But the pain isn't what I miss, it's the numbness.
Six straight lines; the last of their kind.
Though they are faint, the memories of them are not.