#prevposting

the wound opens. you scrape at the obvious clump of dried platelets until it disappears.

the wound opens. you put a bandaid over it and leave it there for a week.

the wound opens. you need a larger bandaid now. you change it every three or four days until you get tired of it falling off in the shower.

the wound opens. you place a small piece of gauze over it and secure it with two bandaids, maybe three if your placement is wonky. it sticks up under your clothing like a mosquito bite.

the wound opens. you take half a square of gauze now.

the wound opens. a full square.

the wound opens. two squares.

the wound opens. you lock yourself in your room and take out the sewing kit from under your bed that you haven’t used in years. you hold the tip of a needle up to your lighter. gritting your teeth, you pull unsterilized thread through your skin. the gauze returns.

the wound opens. you repeat the process. you forget to count the stitches this time.

the wound opens. your parents wonder why the first aid kit you keep above the oven is nearly empty now.

the wound opens. you hold gauze over it as you wait for the better thread to come in the mail. you’ll have to order more of that, too.

the wound opens. your clothes are stained. you were dumb enough to wear a white shirt just when you think you’re back to a dirty little scab again. you have to run out of the room at family dinner and pretend to throw up, when really you’re scrambling about the cabinet under the sink for the long reusable bandage with the little hooks on the end.

the wound opens. it was supposed to be getting better. there’s a stain on the carpet in your room. no amount of peroxide will remove it. once it’s dry, you pile laundry on top of it.

the wound opens. you get a glimpse of one of your intestines, or perhaps it’s your spleen.

the wound opens. more than blood spills out. spots dance across your vision, but somehow, you manage to remain standing. you pick up the pieces and drag yourself to the bathroom again to put them back in. even with the hours you’ve spent poring over pages of anatomy, you can’t quite get them in the right place.

the wound opens. stark bone juts out from the dark mess of your innards. reluctantly, you place a towel over it to staunch the spray, and hope that no one will notice it’s missing. your hands shake as you hold a curved needle, a proper needle, up to the flame. you do not wait for it to cool before you get to work, half hoping it might cauterize the whole mess slightly. (it doesn’t, because that’s not quite how that works. but how are you to know? you’re not studying for an MD. you haven’t even finished undergrad.)

the wound opens. your best friend watches it happen. you apologize and bend over to pick up the pulsating lump that falls out, somehow still hanging by a thread of sinew. but once you’ve knelt to the ground, you can’t get back up. your friend looks at the time. you cough, a clump of blood and another apology falling from your mouth. throwing up in front of them would be better than this. they offer to drive you to a hospital, but there’s no need, no need. it will close, surely. you can only hope it will remain that way long enough for you to take your exams without spilling yourself all over the paper and ruining the stupid answer sheet with the unclosed rectangles and uncannily green ink. that would be a true failure.