Seriously. It hurts a lot. Or maybe the best way to describe it is burn. It burns. I reach down without thinking about it, trying to pull the edge of the bandage down so it completely covers the gash in my forearm. The pain is like a paper cut; but like I’d slid the entire five hundred sheets of paper in the pack across my arm. Being thrown into a power pole and sliding down one of the thick metal wires that helped keep it straight could do that to a girl. It’s a miracle I hadn’t broken anything. Now that the excitement is finally at an end, it occurs to me that I’d kill for a tube of Polysporin right now. My arm isn’t infected; I make sure to clean it a few times a day, but there’s that one kind, the kids’ one, that has a pain killer in it. It would have been nice to just take the edge off. I look around the living room of the little house we’d been living in. The whole place is cute. Cozy. Whoever had lived here had taken care of the place. Of course, now, it’s covered in a layer of dust, the windows are all broken, and some of the furniture has been destroyed.
What do You think about Angered Seasons: The Worst Birthday Ever (Volume One)?
