So much violence and madness, I thought it would never stop. For almost half of my life I lived under a dull red sun which bathed the world in crimson light. I saw a mother grab the hair of a boy her son was fighting, pushing his head down to allow her son to kick him in the face the boy’s pink spittle dribbling onto the concrete. I saw a trail, from the gates of my school, where some kid’s nose must have been broken, to the house where he apparently lived following it in my mind like breadcrumbs. I saw myself as a child, dispassionately watching the red pool form in my brother’s cupped hands. As she filled her little containers, my head was similarly filled with memories and moments. Yet I felt as though it wasn’t only mine she was taking, but every drop I had ever seen spilled. It had taken me an hour to work myself up to it, to convince myself to go through with it, to allow this woman to take my blood. I could feel the needle enter my vein painless, but cold and invasive, like running your tongue along chilled glass.
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