/ the deepest cut

The one consolation in nearly slicing off my finger on our recent camping trip was that I would have a really cool scar, and if'n I was to find myself in a bar full of war amputees, I could join in the story gore.

'WELL LOOK AT THIS. AT LEAST THEY GAVE YOU ANAESTHETICS. I AIN'T GOT NO MEDAL. THAT SCAR'S ALL THE GLORY HALLELUJAH I NEED.'

All my male co-workers are vets, with one having served in Vietnam, one who keeps getting sent back and forth to Afghanistan and the other done a tour in South Carolina, which makes him the most unstable of them all. They all confirm my beliefs.

'YOU CAIN'T NOT HAVE NO SCARS.'

'YOU SHOULD SEE MY LIVER,' I say, before they walk away basking in their military superiority. They don't care about the wars I declare, 'cause I actually enjoy the surrender.

I was supposed to get a validating scar. But it doesn't look like a scar, all red and soft and swollen. It looks like herpes.

My wounds never come out right.