(Inspired by an AO3 fanfic :>)

Scars. They litter his arms, little pin-pricks where the needle went poke, poke, poke. Red bumps, almost like constilations on his arms, near his veins. You promised you never thought any less of him, but he could never truly believe you. Not when everybody else said the opposite.

He's sitting on the bathroom floor, rubbing his arms as if they'll wipe away. But they don't. They never do. Proof of the prick, prick, prick of the needle. He cries. Why does it haunt him so?