Face to Face

My scars tell a horror story.
Children screamed when they saw my face. Mine would have too if they’d survived the war. I lost my daughters, my husband, everyone.
Kind people in a foreign land raised money so surgeons could transplant a dead woman’s face onto the remains of mine. A huge step, but I could no longer look in the mirror. With my disfigurement masked, I would need drugs to suppress tissue rejection for the rest of my life.
One year on, I stopped taking them.
Now, I stare at my old face. Ruined, yes, but it bears witness.