Wednesday, 14 January 2015

The reluctant survivalist, the insane surprise.

So this is my once upon at time
So this is my star-crossed wasteland
I cut my hand pretty badly on the mandoline. I wasn't even using it. I was moving it, fumbled and instinctively caught it. By the blade. I've never seen that much blood at once that wasn't period-related and it was hypnotic, seductive. It was incredibly bright and tepid and slow-growing, absorbing its surroundings like the shadow of the mountains when the sun dances from east to west.

It was properly bandaged four times before it stopped bleeding and before PJ would relax and crack a smile again. Then I washed some dishes and got dressing number five. Then six and they sent Dalton out for more first aid supplies and Sam took over the dishes. Odd how you can't seem to find steristrips in Canada in spite of the fact that everyone seems to carry them but is always magically out. We bring them back by the case from America. I'm going to sell them on the underground, I think (notes potential source of income for the future).

Because in the future my hand is healed but I'm left with a wicked white scar you can only see when I raise my hand to shield my eyes from the bleak whitewashed sunrise, to shield my heart from damage and my soul from theft. I can't see a thing but I feel everything. It feels uncertain and dangerous and yet hopeful, that if you just keep on walking, single-file, quiet as mice, that eventually you come into full sun and things will turn lush and green and certain once more. That people like Joel who claim to be helpful yet only cause more problems are memories that have faded to the point of unreadability and that the pain has too. That only the happiest recollections that make your heart skip and your eyes sting are there to greet that day.

And no blood.

No blood spilled. No blood shed. No blood drawn. No blood painted until it turns black against the white wall and when I step back I see a picture of me.