In that first instant when
you look at a gash in your own
flesh, you see the cut's impersonal
beauty: dark red meat, blood,
and luxurious flaps of skin. Then
comes alarm and pain and panic
(and a tiny gnat-like voice that
whispers, How could you be so
clumsy?). Mind and adrenalin
launch responses. Whatever
was beautiful about that wound
has vanished. The grabbed,
makeshift wrapping's soaking
through, wet red. You're hurt.
"I'm hurt," you think. "I gotta
get some help." You want to hear
the red and pulsing sound of sirens
coming with people and proficiency.
You're hurt. It hurts. You're wounded.