unknown under

It's raw under the scab. So raw and new and pink that it can't help but itch.

She raises her hand and absentmindedly scratches around the raised brown marks along her upper arm. Her short blonde hair is pushed back with a headband, her skinny frame all angles in a light blue tank top and khaki shorts. One can't help but notice her while she shifts from side to side in the grocery store line, holding a cell phone, cash and keys in one hand, scratching her scabs with the other. A case of cheap beer waits for her turn to check out.

Everyone in line feels the same anxiety, the same frustration, the same irritation. No one looks anyone else in the eye, instead they silently judge based on selections and choices. What choices to buy today, what choices to wear to the store today.

She is being judged for her thin body and short hair and wounded arm as much as she is being judged for purchasing a case of beer with cash.