It started with blood. Small droplets slowly wended their way down my leg as if they were casual tourists, only coming for a visit, never intending to stay. Then the tourists grew in numbers; twenty, thirty, forty angry red visitors who'd come to reside on each of my limbs, carrying sharp little backpacks that pricked into my skin. They howled in protest at the poor hospitality, yelling to be noticed, trying to break through my barrier of blissful ignorance. It was only when their numbers grew to more than a hundred that my barrier was shattered into a thousand little pieces and I was forced to notice the sea of red pouring down my leg, whispering malicious insults as it went.
My breathing quickened when I saw the droplets cascading freely down my whitened flesh. The rise and fall of my chest quickly fell into a crazed pattern, following a frantic rhythm. My heart screamed in protest, threatening to break free of the restrictive cage it had been placed in. All of the air in the room disappeared. I gulped hopelessly at the emptiness, my mouth opening and closing in vain. I had never been good with blood.
Seconds ticked by. I started to find comfort in my heaving bosom because, unlike everything else at that moment, it seemed rhythmic, controlled and steady. How ironic: the signal of my unwavering panic was the one thing that could make it subside, if only by a little.
I tried desperately to convince myself that I was fine. "It's only a few droplets of blood," I told myself, "What on Earth could blood do to hurt me?" The voices filling my mind answered my question for me. They screamed, pushing every other thought aside, demanding that I listen to them. Then doubts crept in, slithering like snakes, squeezing the air out of my endorphins, picking off each and every happy thought one by one. My breaths raced; my heart pounded ferociously. Every breath seemed like a battle that was impossible to win, no matter how courageously I fought. The world spun around me. I opened my mouth to scream but no sound came out. I was losing energy.
Teeth connected with flesh. I looked down to discover that my subconscious had forced my pale, tender knuckles into my mouth. They brought me back to reality, back to what I had tried to shut out but could no longer ignore. I was dying. Each droplet of blood was a piece of my life slowly ebbing away from me.
I took a deep breath in and then out again, exhaling the panic and fear that clutched at my insides. My internal monologue was no longer one of raucous shouting. There was nothing I could do to stop it and there was nothing I could've done to stop him when he attacked me with the metal soldiers that would steal pieces of my life from me, one by one.
I took one last breath. All was black.
YOU ARE READING
Blood
Short StoryWhat on Earth could blood do to hurt me? I wrote this for the 500 Words Radio 2 Writing competition and then realised that I'm too old to enter. I had nowhere else to put it so I though I would share it here. Enjoy :)