There’s a scab on my hand from where a girl dug in her claws. She wanted me to shout mercy. Tell her to stop. To win. I didn’t let her. She took away a chunk of skin which stuck under her fingernail. It didn’t bleed at first; just wept plasma and platelets.
A few days later I noticed a scab had formed over the tiny wound, just a few millimetres across. It itched with that irritating little itch that tells you your body is doing its job and healing the wound. Everything’s ok, it’s saying, we’re working on it and normal service shall be resumed shortly. I picked it. The scab came off.
It bled, tiny droplets of crimson blood popped out. Going nowhere. Just staying right there, like the dome of St. Paul’s just on top of my hand. A tiny blonde hair sticking out the middle.
As the weeks went on, I repeated this. Healscratchbleed healscratchbleed healscratchbleed. Right now the wound has almost scarred, a scar which will be visible and raised a tiny little bump a tiny little memory.
Somewhere in the middle of this, I moved house. A long way away from that girl. I liked that girl. I might never see her again. I’ll still have the scar though. That will never leave.
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1 comment:
Interesting. *remembers this one*
Good read btw! xx
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