Something begins to turn.
I can see him, sitting there, judging me, knowing. My own creation, never to leave my side. Each bandage dripping with the knowledge of what I have done. The past soaks through, clings to the skin, waiting for someone to peel it away and expose whatever wound lies beneath. He is the physical embodiment of the realization that some wounds will never heal. No matter how much time may pass.
It’s cold here in this place.