A Personal Narrative — The Beauty Behind My Scar
Written in my WRIT 105 class, during my spring semester of 2022.
This is a story of a personal experience that shows the dynamics of the relationship I had at the time with my pet dog, Bentley, and because of a particular incident, I gained a life-long lesson. The goal of this story is to emphasize the importance of self-confidence, and I vaguely used emotions, the environment, and the characters to impact the message I want to convey.
And so it begins…
Never in a million years would I think that my curly, white, silky smooth, adorable, mixed breed puppy, Bentley, would ever do something like this. I don’t think it was intentional but more as the result of me infuriating him. The day I got Bently, he was a small pup, only 1-year-old. I came home from school, and my mother told me to come to the back of the house, and there she was in her olive green Lexus with Bentley in the passenger seat. I’m not going to lie, not only was I screaming with excitement, but I was completely frightened. There were various emotions I was feeling at the time. I could hear the gravel crunching underneath my feet with each slow step I took as I opened the car door. And then, “Roof!” he jumped on me, and I held him while laughing hysterically. My mother then told me that there was a co-worker at her job who asked if someone would like a dog, and she then told me that his name was Bentley.
Bentley joined our family while I was still in middle school, between the ages of 12 and 13. He was already potty trained, and in the beginning, he liked to go on our beds, but my mother was not too fond of that and got him his own fluffy dog bed with other squeaky toys for him to play with. What I loved most about having Bentley as a pet was how adventurous, caring, wild, obedient, and funny he was. When going on morning walks, he would not only leave me a big load to clean up but he’d run after moving cars and bark at them. But if I told him to stop and called his name a few times, he’d stop right in his tracks, turn around and then tilt his head as if he was asking me where to next?
On a low-lit evening, I had my feet up on the couch and relaxed while watching whatever show was currently airing on the television. Bentley was there too, sitting on the opposite side of the couch while I gently rubbed my hands through the soft fur on his head. The tantalizing aroma of sauteed, garlic shrimp and boiled potatoes ascended from the kitchen to the living room, and it wasn’t only my mouth watering. I got up and ran to the kitchen, and so did Bentley, tagging along at my feet. I begged my mother for a little taste, but I was sadly denied and was told that the food would soon be ready.
I got back into the living room, and so did Bentley, and in order to let the time pass, we played a bit of tug-of-war with these huge brown throw pillows that my mother liked on the couch as decoration. I’m pulling, and he’s biting, Back and forth we go. Bentley let loose, and I continued to rub the pillow in his face, back and forth. The pace is going a little faster now than before, and now he’s not only biting the pillow but also using his paws. His tail is wagging in excitement, and I’m laughing in enjoyment. Until Bentley got a grab of the lower part of my face with his paws, and in a second, the laughing stopped. Blood began to drip down my face and into my hands like droplets of rain after a storm. All I could feel was throbbing pain and dizziness.
The next day, the only thing I could remember was waking up with a cold rag in my hand, bloodstains on the corner of my mouth, a numbing feeling on my lips, and seeing my unrecognizable reflection in the mirror. There was a huge bump on the top of my lip and two lines going across. I was in unbearable pain. With that, the only thing on my mind was not wanting to go to school.
“Just take it easy today, Lia.” my dad says as I walk out of the house and down the salted steps with my freezing hands in my pocket.
That day was the coldest, gloomiest, and most depressing day of my life. Multiple scenarios of what the other kids might say, the awkward feeling of telling my teachers about how this happened, or simply smiling and feeling that numbness. All of these thoughts swarm around me like a hive of bees.
I took it easy that day, just like my dad told me. I would cover my mouth at times when answering questions in class, I didn’t sit with my friends at lunch, and occasionally I’d go to the bathroom and look in the mirrors and see if there were any changes.
When I got home that afternoon, I didn’t hear the running or the scratches on the door he’d make in excitement, just quietness. I opened the door and found Bentley at the foot of the couch, sulking. I dropped everything and told him to come here. The entire day I spent at school, I was furious and angry at Bentley, but at that time I could only feel his guilt through those puppy eyes when he looked up at me, and the waterworks started to swell within my eyes, all I could do then was hug him and cry.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I said. “You know that I’ll always love you," I continue to say while sniffing and wiping away the tears.
Between those ages is where I also found my passion for writing, it got me through a lot of emotional experiences that I could never say aloud. In the night, in my pink book, I did not only write about the pain I was feeling physically, or the way Bentley made me feel but also about the only thing I thought made me beautiful, my lips. I’ve always heard from my mother, my aunties, friends, and cousins how they admire that feature of mine, it is pink and luscious, and not a day would go by without a glossy lip to highlight that feature. It wasn’t until a year later that I realized that beauty is not what is on the outer appearance but is what is on the inside. What matters is what makes you, the things you like and don’t like, what you’ve done for others, the knowledge you've acquired, and your willingness to learn, love, and teach.
I at times, still look at the scar that was left on my upper lip, although it’s not as obvious as it was before. Despite this, the scar has a new meaning now, not of pain, not of guilt, or shame—but of true beauty, confidence, and resilience. So take that picture, post it, and add a caption that will break the internet.
