Scars.

She used to slit her wrists. It took years for those scars to fade away. Even now if you trace along her wrist closely, you will feel the remains of those wounds which had made her bleed. If you're careful enough you might even see the exact turmoil of her being that had caused it.

She used to go for walks in the darkness of the night. She'd walk miles and then suddenly realize that she was far away from safety; then start the walk back home reluctantly. Being safe was never as exciting as taking a risk. Breaking free from this cage called life, meant so much more than being shut in.

She used to imagine cliff-jumping. What it would be like to just fall off the cliff, as a choice. What a high it must be to feel nothing but gravity; to not be in-charge of your own life, to leave it all to a well defined principle of Physics.To be suspended in free air and then fall in slow motion as the blood rushes to your head, all at once, a little too fast.

She wanted to sign up for the army and fight. She knew she could channelize her fears for the better of the country. She didn't mind dying for a noble cause but maybe this was a desire only because she knew it could never be achieved.

She liked thinking about the impossible; dreaming about the unattainable. She liked to believe she could make it otherwise. She liked to defy the rules of physics, the logarithms of mathematics, the trends of life.

But most of all she liked them, scars. As the blood dripped from different parts of her body, oozed from her own flesh and trickled down her sun-burnt, tanned skin, it was like a parallel world. The bruises weren't half as high inducing as the rush that came when she put them under a cool stream of water. The burning made it so much more real. The pain was like adrenaline. Her pain was always an adrenaline. These were the scars of a martyr she thought.

It's now she realizes that those were scars of a coward.
These scars, now, are the ones that mean something.
They mean the fucking world to her.