The Sight of Blood

The light flicks on and the shocking red of blood offends his sight. The boy studies the intricate rouge lace upon his outspread hand. A slender gash is visible beneath the violent blanket at the center of his palm. It glistens sickly, but has stopped oozing. There is pain, and his brain is heated.

For the sight of blood causes instinct to flare.

For the sight of blood prompts immediate self-assessment.

For the sight of blood is a harsh reminder of mortality.

For the sight of blood topples idols and banishes youth.

Over the next few days, the boy's hand begins to heal. The wound's ugly mouth shuts by slow degrees; its nagging voice sluggishly wanes. The pain is gone but its didactic memory remains. The scar of experience lays visible in the dusky lights of self-reflection. Many more wounds lay in store for this hapless boy. Some severe and memorable. Some light and flippant. At his life's end, he will have innumerable markings of the past. Each will have its own intriguing story. These markings are wormholes to the past. And by these markings we will read his life.