The little scar on my right hand.

She asked me why I was crying.

I was eleven when I got the scar on my right hand. A dog bite, actually. It was this big, white, mongrel dog. It had these huge black, innocent eyes. But it's owner was not all that great an owner, it didn't even have a proper leash - but only a rope, a blue rope, tied around its neck.

I told them that the dog had ran over to bite me on the hand. Truth is - I actually went up to the dog, I just never told them. I was afraid. Oh, how I remember the moment when my hand was in its mouth - too risky for me to pull and have my skin torn. I just stood and stared.

While I was in my uncle's Mercedes as he drove me to the doctor's, I looked out of the window as my mum asked if I was fine. I nodded, and suddenly tears started to stream down my face, my mum held me in her arms. She asked if the pain was too unbearable. I shook my head. She said she understood and told me to dry my tears, it's going to be fine.

I didn't know why I was crying, really.