Deserted

He looked inside his arm, it was dark red, almost purple at the bottom and higher, a layer of yellowish bubbly fat, and the skin above that, split, spread. It was like there was tension there to start with and he released it, put a run in a stocking. He got up and walked to the sink. He sighed and turned on the water. His arm began to bleed. The stitch was a running stitch, meaning it was completely under the skin except at the points of entry and exit at the far ends of the cut. The skin looked grey when it was being stitched, or at least he thought. It had all puffed up, not swollen, but seemed to push out. It reminded him of disgusting pornstar vagina, he had to look away.

It hadn't hurt at all. All he felt was a cool breath. It was amazing, like he opened a window in a moving car, a window in his flesh. It didn't hit the bone, not even the muscle, but he could see it, through a layer that covers the muscle. All the power of his body came from something he could now see, he imagined seeing his heart, and thought it would probably look much messier. Not as beautiful. But this isn't really about the muscle, or the arm.

He cut himself with a sword, to draw blood, to baptize it in a way. And he thought that would sound so stupid, so nerdy, all that...but once you see inside your body you realize there is so much to it. And even though the sword wasn't baptized in blood, not a drop had touched it; it was pulled through flesh. Baptism enough. But this isn't about the baptism or the sword.

It was one of his best friend's and his girlfriend's birthday. He had set down the sword and said,
"I just cut my arm so bad." Someone replied,
"It's not even bleeding."
"I know..." He'd gotten help from his friend. They bandaged it with gauze and tape. He came home the next morning and told his parents and called his girlfriend and she came up in her pajamas because it was still early. Her worry was apparent. He took the bandage off, his mom thought she was going to faint. It had already reached the grey color by then. His girlfriend called her mom, a nurse, and she came up to his house. She called him an idiot and told him to get stitches immediately.

He was in the shower, attempting to wash his wound without soap and without direct water. He couldn't put it under the water, he felt dull pains in it under the streams. He marveled at it, he imagined the scar. How large the scar would be if only he could keep it. Now he had a small scar, the width of the metal band on the wheel of a cigarette lighter. But this isn't about the scar.

She was short with light blonde hair. She danced ballet. He loved her very much. She loved him very much. He'd cheated on her a week before with a woman, not a girl, a woman seven years older than him. She was short and with dirty blonde hair. She had a degree in fine art. He was still in high school. His girlfriend didn't know this. He wasn't going to tell her. She kissed him before he left to some kind of outpatient clinic for stitches. He lay on the table as the stitches went in, his mom next to him, still ready to pass out. He watched his arm be stitched until of course, that image. But this isn't about the girlfriend, or the other woman, or the stitches or the pornstar vagina.

This is about how the girlfriend left him for her stepbrother and lived in a shitty town in the desert and was happier with the stepbrother than with him.