∞

Prone to Disinfecting

The tissue was stained with bits of dark red, almost brown. 

Flooding the alcohol, as the alcohol flooded the red.

Then back into the wound.

" Fffffffffffffffffffhhhh......"

His head flung back, his nostrils widened. 

'What stings the most isn't the wound, it's disinfecting it. Cleaning it.'

He got another piece of tissue, soaked it in more alcohol.

As if an invisible current pierced through the tip of his chin into his nose and through his forehead; tilting his skull with precise motion. The air kidnapped through the fence holes of his teeth.

" hfffffffffffffffhhhh..."

Sighed in relief.

Threw the tissue away. 

...

It wasn't the fall, it wasn't when the asphalt burnt through the shirt, ripping off layers of his skin. It wasn't the burning, it wasn't the fall. Not when it turned from pink to red. Not when the cold air kissed the surfaced flesh. Not when the adrenaline sank.

It was the soap, then the alcohol. From washing to disinfecting. From bad to worst.

Just like life.

What hurts isn't the moment you fall, not when you notice the wound, not when the adrenaline sinks.

The disinfecting, that's when you really test your nerves. 

And after that, it's just minor discomfort until it heals.