i've cut out every reminder, except for a toe which still spurts blood every time i bump it against a flat surface. An excerpt from the forthcoming, "Stalwart Blasts":
She would sit silently on the kitchen chairs as he finished his morning activities, cleaning off by wet towel or full shower, eventually coming to inspect her latest wound. "I bumped the side of my face against a pillar," she would say, or, "My shoe slipped, and I stubbed my toe." Such explanations could never account for the impossible amounts of blood, or the palette of her skin - swirling blues, yellows, and reds in a horrific cacophony of primary colors. He would dab her exposed skin gently with water from the sink, the water not fit to drink, and she would ask for a glass of wine.
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