THE SCAR Kimora
Negron
Picture this: A tall, 5-foot-4, teenage girl with long black hair and a scar over her left eye. Yep, that’s me. Just an average teen who has literally no friends. People always question my scar, but I don’t really like to open up about my past. My mother always used to say I was unique, one-of-a-kind, and, in some way, different from others. But that’s what she loved most about me. My mom was a spitting image of me. Long black hair, a smiley personality and beautiful eyes—they were hazel, almost golden. And she had a scar just like mine on her arm; I always thought it was a birthmark but it looked very questionable. She was so beautiful. I was born with her same traits except one of my eyes was hazel and one was bluish-green. I had a bright personality, always happy and happy while caring for others before myself at the same time. I got it from her. She used to remind me everyday that I was beautiful; she never let my smile fade away. We would play in the backyard all day and lay in the grass until the sun set. She picked me up and we would go for ice cream and play in the park after school every day. It was the best time I ever had in my life. But one day, when I was in tenth grade, I was waiting for my mom to appear as I waited in the playground with all the other kids while they were waiting to get picked up. I waited and waited and waited, but she never came. Finally, after an hour went by, my dad came and picked me up. It was kind of odd. He was never around or at home. He always worked. So it was really just me and Mom all the time. But she never missed a day to pick me up from school. As I got in the car, I felt kind of worried. We drove home in silence. “Dad, is there something wrong?” I asked as I glared over at him. He looked kinda worried. He said nothing. Knowing that he stood quiet meant something was really wrong. I tried not to worry about it much but the thought of it nagged me. We
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