Her palms were sweating, and she began grinding her fingers into the fleshiest part of her hands, digging her fingernails in, scratching. Not like this would make the sweat go away, but it might relieve some stress. Staring at the thick pink scar forming on her left thumb, she lowered her hands and wiped her palms roughly against her jeans, then lifted them back onto her lap and fanned out her fingers. For a moment, she stared at her short, chubby fingers. How could someone get stuck with such childish, unappealing hands? It seemed unfair. When she was younger, she had always looked up to Sailor Moon, hoping she’d gain Sailor Moon’s slender, beautiful fingers by the time she was fourteen. The transformation simply never occurred.
So instead of just taking this blow from nature, she regularly acquired injuries on her hands. Maybe they were initially accidents, but they would scab, and she would scratch off the scabs meticulously as they healed. The scabs would be systematically scratched off every day until they couldn’t heal anymore, and then there would be scars instead of scabs. Scarred ugly hands were slightly superior to unscarred ugly hands. At least, that was her idea of culture. That was her idea of risk-taking.
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