A few days before I left the state I live in, I was beginning to think of marks of injury or death in relation to the marks I have on my body. Tracing a finger idly over the mole on one of my shoulders, I received another flashback of the Hungarian-Ottoman wars. A memory of being stabbed there by a young Turk who was fresh into war and scared out of his wits... It's rather sick how I found it funny, I know I was much more sadistic in that lifetime but I can't say I'm not repulsed by the sheer enjoyment of killing him and the amusement found in how pathetic I'd thought him to be... I know I deserved that mark. Looking down to the one on my side over my ribs, I didn't dare touch it because I just KNEW that I deserved that one too. I didn't want to know. Not because I could tell it would've killed me due to where it sits, but because I don't want to know about who else I've hurt... A day or so later I was about to get in the car when I paused to look in the window to look at my reflection. I can't tell what compelled me to do so, because I rarely feel the need to look at my reflection at all let alone so intensely... Lifting up my head a little I saw another mole on my neck, that I know is hidden from sight most of the time and that is impossible for me to see unless I catch a glimpse of my reflection at that the right angle. Touching it, I was not hit with a flashback but merely an overwhelming sense of fear... And for some reason, knowing that one I DIDN'T deserve.