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I’m sitting on the only kitchen stool.

The counter is still littered with handfuls of blood-stained newspaper, and even from here I can see the rusty shadow that has dried on the floor in front of the door, with the blur of footprints then leading to the coffee table.   That has dark smudged hand prints at its edges, and the pile of B-grade horror DVDs waiting to lend to Harmony have some new drips of gore immortalised on them that weren’t part of the original cover art.

Then the trail lessens as the wads of paper helped – the footprints to the window are less distinct, and there’s only the faintest smear on the glass from when I dragged it open to finish quietly bleeding on the fire escape in the dark.   Happy Halloween.

 

Blood is messy.   I should know.   But then – I rarely ‘prepare’ my meals at home, so cleaning items are a rarity in my place.   As are any household medical supplies or even paper goods.   I don’t usually need gauze, bandages, napkins, towels, tissues or toilet paper – Harmony has complained bitterly about the latter.   So now, sitting on the counter amid the bloodied newspaper (I was improvising), is the shopping bag of new cleaning products, including gloves, sponges and bleach.   And asprin.

In a useful bin out near the local store there is now a pair of much-loved jeans dyed stiff and red-brown, along with still wet runners, and a white t-shirt that is a horror fest with artistic blood designs and a remarkably realistic hole blown through the front and back.   If you found it, you’d be impressed at the person who really went all out for their Halloween costume there.   Almost a  shame they throw away – could have kept it for next year…

 

Fuck.

Doubled over on the fucking stool here now.   Pain.   Instinctively went to clutch the gaping wound again under my shirt, but there’s only smooth unscarred skin now.   It took about four hours for the bleeding to fully subside, and maybe another six for the grotesque cavity to be no longer visible.   Shows what a mess it was that it took so fucking long.

Here’s the thing though.   Doesn’t matter how old we get, our bodies persist in remembering how we used to heal.   That gut-ripping, spine-tearing gun-shot wounds should take longer than half a day to stop hurting…   You know how people lose limbs and still feel them there, right?   Well, we get ‘phantom pain’.   When I’ve pointed out about everything running better for us, that unfortunately includes our fucking pain receptors.   Our bodies, in protective trauma mode, are still convinced we should be injured and keep fucking reminding us off the fact…   I healed up, no problems, but my pain sensors keep ringing alarm bells and giving me all the physical feeling of still being shot.   For real.   Stupid, frail, self-deceiving bodies.   It’s ridiculous and irritating – and still fucking painful, dammit.

So here I am, with all my own bloody mess to clean up here, all the hideous pain of a gun-shot wound through the abdomen that has healed and feels exactly like it hasn’t, and not even a nice scar or war wound to show for it.  

Brix is gonna pay for this.

Meanwhile, this is me popping off the asprin lid and crunching up a mouthful, taking up the gloves and bleach, and setting grimly to work.

 

NEXT ENTRY…

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4 Comments

  1. You threw away your clothes before washing the blood off?

    I find the thought of vampire flies both funny and scary…

    • Do you know how fucking hard serious blood-stains are to get out?…

      Besides, I like to use my laundry for other chores…

      • You could’ve at least burnt them!

        Yes, I remember now your multi-purpose visit to the laundry room/shop.

  2. Hydrogen peroxide and spit work miracles on blood stains. Trust me. I would know. I’ve had to clean up more than a few bloody messes in my day. Hydro-peroxide lifts it right out, and if you don’t have any, spit works in a pinch. Something about the enzymes in our saliva… (This advice is obviously for future messes)


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