On the back of my forearm, there is a scar. Around three centimeters long, and three millimeters at its widest. It is positioned perpendicular to the length of the forearm, ten centimeters from the wrist.
This particular scar has been, for reasons unknown, an object of interest for at least two members of my family: my father and my brother. My father would look at it and say something like, "Ah, what a shame, where did you get that scar?" My brother, on the other hand, would try to play detective (no doubt the influence of that BBC's Sherlock he has been watching), but to no success. He, like his father, would express his perplexity at it, wondering at how the scar came to grace my arm.
To both of them, I always answer, "Hey, yeah, where/how did I get that? Must have been a long time ago when I was a little kid."
After all, it can't possibly be recent, made with a red kitchen knife, around three millimeters deep at the time of its creation, and self-inflicted, right?
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