Short stubby nails and rough calloused hands, I hate them. I hate them for the memorises they bring back, of a time when my hands were smooth, unblemished and not used to hard work. Much like I had been. It didn't take long for him to beat that out of me.

I have scars all over me. Not unusual for our line of work. Most are mundane. Knife wounds, bullet wounds and the occasional burn. Not all from missions though all very easy to explain away. I can remember almost every scar on my body, remember watching it lace its way over my skin as it healed. They're easy enough to look at those mundane scars. The others, the ones I cover are harder.

Harder to look at, harder to explain, harder to live with. The six cigarette burns under my left breast from when my father caught me smoking. The bite marks from a wild animal around my right calf from when my father taught me the importance of running fast. The thin angry lines that stretch themselves across my back the result of the harsh lashing of a whip, my father's way of teaching me not to scream. How could I ever explain these scars to my team, all so young, so innocent? I cover these scars to avoid the questions, so I can forget the answers.

Then there are the psychological scars. The ones even I can't see though sometimes they show up in my actions. There are more obvious ones; my secrecy, how hard I find it to trust people, the way I shut down whenever anyone mentions family. Less obvious my intense fear of being vulnerable, how if anyone grabs me from behind I lash out. Why I always cringe away from lighters and baseball bats. The ease with which I can recite large amounts of information, funny how a hot poker stabbed into your shoulder can burn a lesson into your brain.

I can't, I know I just can't tell my team any of this, they would treat me differently like I'm fragile, vulnerable and in need of protection. Things I've worked so hard not to be. Sometimes I wish I could break down let it all out, but my father's voice calling me weak, stupid and worthless always stops me.

Short stubby nails and rough calloused hands, I hate them. I hate them for the memorises they bring back, of a time when I was kind, gentle, innocent and happy.

AN: This is the first story I've written so I apologise if it isn't any good. I'm terrible with grammar and I don't have a beta. Thank you for reading anyway.