Wednesday, August 31, 2005

Wounded

Injury Du Jour: We finish the roof as the first cool drops of rain grace us. Then I step through a loose beam on my father’s wooden deck. My leg goes down several inches before the piece I’ve dislodged slams backwards into my shin. An explosive pinch from a hydrolic vice. The world explodes into a white glare. I’m trapped and hovering on one leg. Unable to scream. Unable to breathe. Hanging in space for a year-long three seconds before I collapse into a kneeling position. And pry my leg free from the embrace.

My hand barely covers the wound. Almost down to the bone. Except for a bit of red red meat still clinging in front. I’m rolling on my back on the searing deck. Cursing silently. Mouthing profanities unfit for writing. A deep purple bruise already spreading to most of my lower right leg. One knee clasped almost to my chest. Blood sluicing into my sock and around my calf.

I half-hobble and half-crawl into the house. Yelling for Mother. Again. But, I don't think a wet towel will fix this one.

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