Adam traced the scars with his fingers, circling his left wrist then over the outer edge of his hand. His scars resembled the seam of a glove carefully stitched into his skin. His scars stretched up his arms. The scars of his body looked like a patchwork quilt, uniform sized pieces moulded to the contours of his body.
He ran his hands down his chest, feeling every bump of scar tissue. He stepped closer to the mirror and inspected it. It was faint, like a squiggle drawn on his skin. He rubbed his finger over it and it didn’t come off. He ran over to the window, opened the curtain, and inspected the blue mark. It appeared to be a series of numbers. He furrowed his brow and moved back to the mirror, positioning himself so he could see his body better in the light. His eyes darted all over his reflection, looking for more blue squiggles. He changed position again, pointed his elbow to the ceiling and moved his hand down the side of his ribs. There! He saw another one.
Adam spent the rest of the afternoon inspecting his skin for more of these numbers. He sat on his bed, fully nude, with a thin blanket draped over his shoulders. His eyes now recognised the slight discolouration that marked the numbers on his skin. Every patch of skin had a number. Every shape that the scars outlined and made had a number. He was a patchwork man of serial codes.
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