scratches

He made me put the aidstrip on his knee, though I refused to mend his pants for him. The man can do that himself. “I like these pants” he said mournfully, wincing as I poured on the antiseptic. Who knows what germs lurk in the corners of Roller. I wonder if space is still the cleanest frontier, after a generation or two of shipping, dumped cargo, engine dust, coffins, who knows what else. A bacterial vacuum.

Then he reached out and touched the scar on my arm. It’s a short scuffmark near my left elbow, I had my sleeves rolled up and he must have just noticed it. A trail left by a bullet meant for Ulysses. I reached out and pushed him aside, but the arm occupied the space his body had filled a millisecond before, and the bullet left a bleeding gash. If I had leaned my body six centimeters more, or taken half a step, it would have lodged in my lungs. Though we publicly joked about it, Ulysses used to touch that smooth line with a serious expression on his face. We both knew what it meant.
I jumped, surprised at the touch, and Caban let his hand drop.
“I’ve been shot, too” he said, none of his usual bravado. He was suddenly so strange, so quiet. “Each scar is a memory. A specific event, a failure or mistake.”
“A reminder of survival.” I replied, thinking of the man’s self-proclaimed impenetrable luck.
“But it hurts.” He said, surprising me again. I could do nothing else but agree. I thought of my other wounds, the pockmark on my calf from Xylos, the second scar on my arm, the deep lesion they had dug in my back. Those were scars that Ulysses had tried to prevent, ones he’d never know I received. That, too, wounded me.

I wonder what marks have riddled Caban.