This was the first chance I had to examine her up close, and I could see that she had makeup on different parts of her body. I'd been working the joint long enough to know the makeup probably hid bruises, burns, or cuts, inflicted by the men who came in and out of her life, whiskey scars I think they called them. I also saw a thin scar running through the eyebrow over her left eye, a souvenir from the past to remind her always of her place in life. I had plenty scars myself, some visible, and some not. I had read somewhere that scars were proof you had lived. I hated bullshit like that. Scars only proved you had been hurt and hurt permanently.