Texture
-He winces at the blood dripping. He can feel the pain tracing its way through his nerve passages, outlining his frame the way the tip of a knife would work to cut him out of this life. His muscles contract the way instinct commands in its attempt to assure survival. There is no assurance. There is blood. There is no certainty.There are bruises. There are scabs. Bits of the upper layer of his skin remain on the gravel. Little bits resembling red soaked clay shavings; the remains of a serpent’s skin after it has begun to shed and the shedding […]