A wound to care for

Blood on the broderie anglais and him, scrubbing it out. Borax. Bleach. Hands redraw, deep in the water. Dark hair, greased, slipping into his eyes. And it feels too intimate for him to do this for me. The time ticks dangerously close, and I have to go. Both too tired to speak but a long, lingering stare as I shove my bare feet into cold rubber boots. Wildflowers tearing up the path as I’m out the door. Warm breeze, flying through the fields. Hurling myself towards my father, waiting for me. Throat burning. Legs aching. Chest without breath. The reassuring silhouette of his office. His tanned wrist turning pages in the window. The door handle heavy as I clatter inside. I’m bedraggled in a way that pushes past his tolerance. He silently pries an explanation from me, eyebrow raised, arms open, wondering. I tell him of the accident but leave out walking with his friend, shaved so close and collar so white, gently swinging his leather bag with each stride. My chest leaping until the scream. A moment of concern, and a relinquishment of me. Then, back into his world. I sit down at my sister’s desk, knees crammed and scraping against the wood. Flicking through legal documents as I think of his friend unbuttoning his belt with one hand and tightening it above the shard of metal protruding from a stranger’s skin. Concentration that could cut but, something so routine about the way he moved. Swift efficiency. Muscle memory that could only have been built from doing this too many times before. My hand shakes as I remember: eyes shut, agony, the revulsion as he looked at his own limb. A complete stranger, young gardener, freckles everywhere. My father leaves for court. I wait for my feelings to come back to me instead of numb, dazed, motioning through the day. If he wasn’t so distracted I know he’d be searching for me. For now, I put myself back together. Get lost in a sea of clauses. Let coffee burn my lips. Write until the pen leaks. Wonder how my sister enjoyed this. Think of her, heavily pregnant, never scared of the unknown. Think of him, indescribable, and turn my mind away. The day ends. My father returns; head in the clouds, body on earth. I leave him, moving mountains at his desk. Twilight takes hold of the sky. Walk home on the precipice of darkness, avoiding his road. Unable to escape the thought of my white shirt in his garden, drying in the wind. Reach for my key when I notice the lights are off. Not a sibling home. Get past the apple tree, and adrenaline surges through me. Golden light floods the porch. Head bowed, hands clasped, inky black coat spilling on the floor. Gravel crunches unbearably as I will my legs to walk. He looks up and finds me, concern heaving him off the floor. I smell his movements on the breeze. My heart repulses me. He strides over and I beg for something to save me. I just wanted to check how you were. His voice, deep, steady. I think of him, vaulting over the fence, walking towards danger as I, hand shaking, unlatched the gate. I nod. False courage. Suddenly feeling so much emotion in my throat, and I can only tell him silently. He catches the look in my eye. Holds onto it, then, breathes in. Dark brows hitch together, looking at the sky. How do you cope? Half smiles at my naivety. I’m used to seeing so much agony.