-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 has been trampled, along with the serpent still slithering away. He bears the weight. On his brow, a synecdochic inscription of his state. His eyes prepare to burst, that they too may be left undone on the gravel. He rises up and the knife tip works its way through him. He grits his teeth. He shivers. He takes the next step forward, uphill, against the blood stains in the gravel. His face creases and he can feel the temperature rise behind his eyes. In a flurry his life flashes in his mind. He searches the moments, the memories, the experience, as his torn flesh empties of life. He labors to fill his lungs against the bruise sensation. He stacks memory next to circumstance. He presses for the next step, wincing at the knife’s point.
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