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The scar is old. The only reason he can see it is because he remembers exactly where to look. It’s only a tiny nick, right under his chin--he’s done worse to himself shaving now. But when you’re seven, you’re just so very... fragile, and every scrape might as well be a mortal wound.
He thumbs the scar, tilting his head back to catch a glimpse of it in the bathroom mirror. He remembers the blood and a blur of pain, the memory gone fuzzy around the edges--but mostly he remembers rough hands and Dad’s voice.
“You’re all right. Come on now,” Dad told him, setting him back on his feet. “It was only an accident. You know I didn’t mean it.”
But when he’d bled through one of Mum’s dishtowels, Dad all but tossed him into the car and took him straight to A & E.
“Brave boy,” Dad told him after the medics had stitched him up. “So chin up and lips shut, eh? I’ll take care of your mother. Don’t want her to getting upset, do you?”
Arthur had seen Mum in tears before. It was the last thing he wanted. When they went home, Mum fussed over him as soon as she laid eyes on him. Dad told her he’d had a run-in with the floor--which wasn’t a lie, really, but Dad left out the bit about the run-in with the back of his hand. Arthur didn’t say a word. After all, it had only been an accident.
It hadn’t been, he knows that now, but it’s still a secret and it’s one he’ll never tell. He’ll never be the one to make Mum cry, never let her believe she failed him--because that’s exactly what she’d do. The fault was never hers and so he’ll never let her shoulder the blame.
“Arthur,” Mum calls, pausing in the doorway to arch a brow at him. “What on earth are you doing?”
He lets his head fall forward, swiping at his chin, wiping out the memory and gives her the brightest smile he possibly can.
“Nothing,” he tells her, beaming. “Just putting on my brave face.”