Calloused Souls

“What does your tattoo say?” He asked, his obvious discomfort with silence transforming into genuine curiosity. She tilted her head down, eyeing the faded black script that hovered above the crook of her arm.

She smiled, slightly, and met his hazel gaze. It was warm and encouraging. “Calloused souls.”

The golden iris’s widened as if connected by a string to his now raised eyebrows. 

“What does it mean?” 

This was far from the first time she had been asked this question. Normally, she lied, saying it was a line from her favorite book. If met with a continued inquest, she would feign an excuse to remove herself. But something about him, the way he nervously shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, the slight break in his voice when he asked, those pools of amber; he radiated authenticity. She took a deep breath and rested her chin on her tented hands—the solidity of the table beneath her elbows steadying her for a rare bout of honesty.

“When people have experienced things, really hard things — ugly things — others tend to label them as broken or flawed. I’m neither.” Her voice faltered and briefly, she looked off into her peripheral, searching for buried words. “I’m a calloused soul. I’m not broken, just scarred. And scars are a sign of survival, they’re a sign of strength and persistence.