She reached beyond the end of time to pull forth the knowledge that life did not come prepackaged with a happy ending. That, at best, it was a collection of experiences pieced together randomly, the good upon the bad, the meaningless upon the profound. And though it may have seemed, that some elements were destined to be, of a predetermined nature if you will, there was no logic in avoiding the theory that, perhaps, each occurrence thereof, each and every grasp full of happiness, was no more than a series of miraculous mishaps.

They were collisions in time, the kind of accidents that inevitably brought with them victims and bloodshed-when, they, in the beginning, had been nothing more than a leisurely Sunday drive.

You see, no one, who had cuts and bruises big enough to see without squinting, could deny that existence was unkind. There was evidence of that everywhere. But, even with that acknowledgement, there was some underlying hope that coerced people into believing “it was all for some great cause”, “that the good guy always won”, “that they lived happily ever after”.

And she, you see, she knew that that kind of thinking was misled, misdirected. How could any person witness the stratification of the human race and not question their beliefs? For, somewhere out there, was a starving child and for every one of those, was another being beaten…..and for every infant that was born into the arms of a loving family, there was a baby being discarded in the bathroom of an airport during a layover. Life was not kind. It was not cuddly. It was mean. It was violent. It had claws. And though the gouges could be disguised, minimized, wrapped up in gauze and taped shut, the lines had been drawn upon the skin of each and every one of us.

And if you peel back the bandage, the proof remains………the scar.
Because life makes scars. And scars aren’t pretty.