All she remembers is blood. Born in blood, bathed in blood and death in blood. All there is is blood. The very life force that keeps us going about our miserable lives can be the very death of us. Ah, the irony of the cold hard truth. And now, as she laments over the injustice in the world, blood is once more drawn and spilled on her pale forearm. Her naked flesh growing softer in the tainted water, becoming as wrinkled as the day she was born. Born in blood. She flickers back to the abuse she’s suffered through the years, her body being a canvas of deep purple bruises, radiating contusions, and leaking lacerations. Bathed in blood. The cuts become deeper, her breathing shallower and her vision blacker. Death in blood.
September 11, 2011