“Where the Wounds Speak”

“Where the Wounds Speak”

In a world cloaked in twilight, two figures stood across from each other in a vast, empty chamber. Their bodies shimmered with translucent skin, and beneath it, wounds pulsed like living memories — jagged, glowing fissures that never closed.

They began to speak.

But their voices did not rise from their mouths. Instead, words spilled from the wounds — phrases etched in light, curling into the air like smoke. One figure’s shoulder split open with the whisper, “You always leave.” Another’s chest cracked, releasing, “I was never enough.” The room filled with sentences shaped by pain, each one a shard of history, each one a scar made audible.

They weren’t arguing. They were unraveling.

Every word was a confession, a defense, a plea — not from the present, but from the past. The wounds dictated the dialogue, and the figures, though desperate to connect, could only echo what had once broken them.

Time passed. The chamber grew heavy with unspoken truths.

Then, something shifted.

One figure, trembling, placed a hand over their own wound. The light dimmed. They breathed — not from pain, but from choice. “I’m still learning,” they said, and this time, the words came from their lips. Not a wound. Not a scar. Just a voice.

The other paused. Their wounds flickered, uncertain. Then softened.

“I want to understand,” they replied, speaking not from rupture, but from heart.

The air changed. The glowing words faded, replaced by warmth. The wounds remained, but they no longer spoke. They listened.

And in that silence, healing began.