Blood. Portal to basics. A demanding focal intersect of
now with ever. Distractions vanished in relevance. Whose, the initial
interest. The sense of a voice, one of his own, weighing implications
of the blood being of the preferred other: A wound from him?
Accidental? Negligence? Otherwise...
“Otherwise it would
have been assault, by me...” Public voice when he's tense. Tension
leaves with its recognition. Ultra private voice: “That's bullshit.
No memory of anybody near and if I'm not remembering them it could be
somebody else or something hurt somebody and it wasn't me but what
the fuck did happen? Is it me then? My blood? Nothing hurts, I don't
think. No, don't feel anything, pain, itching, nothing. So if it is
my blood? My blood. OK. What the fuck. Just on my face though. Just
there? So how'd it get there?
“But I'm just
guessing, OK? That it's blood. It could be bird shit hahahahahaha.
But what about the rest then? The numbness or whatever. Could I move
if I wanted? If I had to? I don't have to, I don't think. Do I want
to? I don't really want to, I think, although I could be
rationalizing. Shit. I shouldn't be afraid to see if I can move. Just
to see. I think I am, though. Afraid. Maybe just theoretically.”
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