Oval

In this world, there was an oval of flesh missing on the girl’s ankle because she accidentally swiped too low and cut herself shaving.

In another world, there was an oval of flesh missing at her heel as punishment from running from a would-be groom and an altar she hadn’t chosen.

In another, two ovals of flesh were missing on either side of her ankles as punishment for stealing jewelry and hiding it wrapped around her ankles under clothing.

In another one oval of flesh was missing because the first step to cutting ties with her second family was cutting the tattoo from her flesh.

In one more, the flesh had been rubbed raw by the one shackle so many times that one misshapen oval scar of bright pink, smooth flesh was leftover, ready to chafe again.

In another, the oval was a bruise that was met with more smiles and laughs than the accident’s sting.

In another, the foot was gone entirely, and hollow half-ovals haunted the girl’s eyes at the thought of “infection” at any corner.

In another, it was a birthmark, a perfect elliptical mark, completely unusual, and it opened many doors.

Another one found it extracted fresh, sometimes as soon as it had healed from the last, because the knobs on the ankles were an unobtrusive place to make herself bleed without others noticing or caring.

In every one, over and over again, some impact found its way to that ankle, the universe favoring one small oval-shaped spot in any way it found the girl who owned it.