Scar.

“So… where’d you get that scar?”

I look up immediately. I wasn’t expecting that from a job interview. Especially not as a barista. But I guess it’s normal to notice my scar. It’s not like it was inconspicuous. It was a long, jagged scar, obviously messily stitched-up, starting from my eyebrow and ending near the tip of my nose. It was not a scar you would expect from a young, quite tiny girl of 28.

I started thinking of what to say. It’s not exactly a difficult subject for me, but…

It was during my days working in the Army, as a Field Surgeon. I worked in the Army for about 10 years, and the Sergeant was literally begging me to retire, saying I was getting older and I needed to relax a bit. But I couldn’t leave the men. Over the years I had gotten quite fond of them.

When I’d first joined the army, I was expecting some tough and hostile men, poised to fight at any second.

But it was completely the opposite.

They were sweet and caring and soft. They always looked out for all their friends — and it seemed like they were friends with everyone — in the army, from fellow soldiers to their caretakers, and it was no exception in my case. They shook me warmly by the hand the minute I was taken in, and asked me all sorts of information, about my background, how I was brought up, and tiny titbits of memories and precious moments, things that they didn’t need to know nor did they have to, but I found myself telling them.

I was particularly fond of a soldier, Mark Thomas, barely 18 or 19 (my age at the time), but the person who looked after everyone as if they were his children and the person everyone turned to with their troubles. Whenever he got sick or injured, the men would have to practically drag him in to the Field Hospital, as he was determinedly reluctant to stay put. He wanted to join his fellow men always, scared that he might loose them in a blink of an eye. He would moan and groan about his team-mates and his responsibilities, oblivious to any pain, while he was in my care. Whether I was stitching up his wounds or feeding him medicine, he was constantly asking me when he could leave.

I couldn’t bring myself to leave, though I could at any moment or time.

When I was 27, there was an intense war, and all health-care givers were required to stay on field. I jumped from one injured soldier to another, all with life-threatening wounds that could end the life of one in a heartbeat. I had stitched up one of the many wounds that Mark Thomas had and was running to another when I heard a scream of my name.

“Iris! No!” yelled Mark, “Behind-”

I turned just to feel the skin near my eye being scratched out and I blacked out. The only thing I heard was the thump as Mark wrestled the soldier onto the ground.

I woke up with a jolt in a hospital bed. I touched my face to feel a bandage wrapped round my eye. I called a nurse in to ask what happened.

“Well, dear, some turn-coat had decided to take his anger out on you.” she said, fidgeting with her hand.

“What happened to Mark?” I asked her frantically, “Mark Thomas?”

She froze. She turned to look at my face, not quite meeting my eyes.

“Well… Dear…” she started. “He… passed away while trying to save you.”

My heart seemed to stop. Mark Thomas? The guy who didn’t think of anyone but himself, always ready to fight? The dude who simply loved everyone? The man who was so soft- hearted, he cried while watching videos of kittens? And I killed him?

I didn’t want to believe it. But I couldn’t not believe it either.

I was forced to leave the army. Mental instability or something. Honestly, I didn’t care at that point because it seemed like there was nothing to live for there. I staggered around my hometown, ignoring the stares and open-mouths at my scar. I was like a zombie with nothing to live for. I ate, I drank, and I slept, with nothing in between.

Until a year later, I cleaned out my old army bag to find a polaroid picture. It was of me and the guys. Mark Thomas was there too. We all smiled and grinned at the camera, pulling silly faces and funny poses. We were all so stupidly happy, that I couldn’t help pulling a smile, even now. I thought that Mark wouldn’t want me to live like this. He would want me to live freely and most of all, happily.

So, I continued life. I moved to the bustling, busy city of New York. Most people didn’t stared at me there, as they were too caught-up with there own lives, though I still got the occasional odd weird-look. But that was okay.

I got new friends, new hobbies, a cute dog and a small, but warm house.

And now I’m getting a job. Not for the money, I have enough of retirement money for my service, but for the experience. I’m still a young girl after all. I still think of Mark now and again, but mostly of fond memories.

“You don’t have to answer that if you’re uncomfortable with it.”

I snapped back to reality, looking at the eyes of the interviewer.

“No, it’s fine.” I began. “It all started with…”