I didn’t tell them in the pub where I was from but they guessed. My accent gave me away immediately and they had tried not to offend me by staring but that just made it worse. I was used to staring. At least if they stared there was an awe and fascination in their faces that was almost complimentary.

“You can look if you want. It’s fine.” They jumped a little when I said this. I had read their minds; I had stolen their attempt at being casual.

“Look at what?” The blonde was going to attempt it anyway. In a quick, concise movement she flicked her hair off her shoulder. The skin was bare and flawless.

“This.” I pointed at my face, not to be outdone. “You can look. I’d rather if you did and then got used to it.”

“Why would we look at you?” she sniffed. “Don’t be silly.”

I looked at her incredulously. “But, I-”

“That’s just like them, you know,” she continued. “Always making it out to be worse than it is. Like there’s some kind of war going on... Your face is fine.”

“Oh,” I was speechless. “Ok.”

Relieved, the others sighed and returned to normal conversation. Unseen, I reached up and touched the deep grooves etched into my skin. Two years later, they still couldn't remove all of the bomb shrapnel. Things were different beyond the border.

Want to comment on this Flash Fiction? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Flash Fiction and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...