Trampled

The silver marks on her legs were trophies from her soccer days. She had been very good at taking hits then--though less so now. She would be surprised by how many scars there were if she ever bothered to look at herself, but perhaps, when healing is mostly done, this is the best way forward. Once, her own teammate trampled her chasing the ball. A knee to the head and a cleat to the thigh left very little in the way of blood, but wounded deeper than you might think. Two others ran over her after that. You aren't meant to stay down in a fast paced environment, of course, but it took too long to rise. 'It was your own fault being in the way like that,' naturally, her father said, 'you should have gotten up quiker.' Head still aching from the initial blow, she said nothing, and did not see the bleeding wounds all over her body. She did not look down; only forward. She did not cry. She did not question the narrative, though perhaps, she should have.