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The funny thing about scars is that even years after they have faded away, their absence is more sickening than if they had stuck around. The lack of an old scar is more noticeable than the appearance of a new one.
Remus took no notice of the new scars, there were too many to keep count in the end. Between the missions he went on for the Order and his monthly outings, scars seemed to follow him everywhere he went. He was bound to gain more, so why would he bother keeping track.
The only one he focussed on was his first scar. The little pink line grazing his left forearm remained intact after all these years. It shrunk with his age, he did get it at only four years old after all, but it remain unscathed until now.
Every morning, Remus looked down at the little pink line; tracing it as he began to take in the morning air. But this morning was different, this morning greeted him with nothing but a patch of smooth skin.
The roughness of the reformed skin had disappeared into nothingness, almost as if it had never been there at all. The tiny little line was gone.
It should've been a happy thing, that despite all the damage he had suffered his body still prevailed in healing itself, but it wasn't because Remus knew that another scar would replace the first. And then another after that. His skin would continue to heal only to be ripped apart for the rest of his life until the one day he would be injured beyond repair. And the most sickening thing is not that he longed for the day, because he didn't, it was that he wouldn't fight his death when it came.