Scars Tell My Story

Scars mar the back of my hands in webs across my knuckles. While some work hard to cover their imperfections, I wear mine proudly. Every time I look down at my hands I remember the story of how I received the silver markings on my skin. I remember my past and the hardships I went through. Showing my scars lets the world know my story.

I was only fifteen when I won my first underground street fight.

I stayed light on my feet and waited for my opponent to make the first move. My eyes scrutinized him, looking for weak points on his burly frame. As he circled his way around me, I caught the way he favored his left leg and knew that would be a key target. He walked arrogantly and smugly while he scanned me. I’m sure I looked like easy prey. I was merely a fifteen year old boy, scrawny from lack of food and covered in dirt from life on the streets. I had something my adversary didn’t though—the need to win.

I didn’t want to join this underground world; it was the only option left if my brother and I wanted to survive on our own. The fighters would get a portion of the money the audience would gamble and happened to be the only way to get a constant flow of money. My younger brother and I ran away from the orphanage when I was twelve and he was ten. The Chicago streets became our home despite how tough the conditions were and how bitter the winter came.

Max and I worked until our hands were raw and calloused and still hardly had enough money to eat. Staying out late at night to work at the run down factory became routine. We knew that our boss was breaking many of the child labor laws, but at the time we couldn’t care less. Mr. Barkley gave us just enough money so we wouldn’t starve. My brother’s once chubby face grew hollow with hunger but his bright green eyes still held the same spark they did before our parents died. I worked extra shifts just so I could get him more food and to help him have a somewhat normal childhood. It had taken nearly four weeks just to get enough money to give Max a yo-yo for his birthday even though it had meant cutting down my meal portions.

Rumors filled the streets about a new underground street fight organization and the wealth given to the brawlers. I had dreamed of having enough money to give Max and I a warm place to stay and not have to live on small rations when food prices shot up and we couldn’t afford to eat every day. Without Max knowing, I began to practice fighting while he was out running errands. I had seen several boxing fights from outside of Billy’s Sports Bar and I was scurried away by the owner when he saw me staring at the fight from the window. I made sure to stop by every Tuesday on the way from the factory just to study the movements the boxers used. I noted the way they sized up their opponents before going on the attack. I would stand outside the window and mimic the punches and dodges along with the fighters, earning some stares in my direction from those passing by.

After I began participating in the street fights, money was coming in, in a constant flow. Not long after, I could afford to buy both lunch and dinner for Max and I for the first time in three years. Our tattered rags that we once called clothes were finally replaced by new coats and pants. While the underground world was dangerous, it gave me the chance to bring my brother and I out of the cold Chicago streets.

The injuries I received were nothing compared to the poverty I dug my brother and I out of by fighting. The scars that decorate my hands symbolize what I went through to bring my brother to where we are today. I no longer fight and Max and I are finally out of the cruel streets of Chicago. My scars tell my story of pain and hard work that I put in to give my only family a chance to live a normal life. I will never hide my scars.