I laid my injured arm on his shoulders. Gently. As not to hurt myself further. As not not to push him. My face stained with tears. My clothes stained with blood. Everything smelling of salt and iron and dirt. Still, he leaned his face in to mine and kissed me goodbye. Then he was gone. Leaving me behind, bleeding out through the stitches and gauze.
The healing process was long and painful. Despite the painkillers. Because of the painkillers. It hurt too much to sit but it also hurt to lay. I slept. A lot. Too much maybe. But every time I was awake I wished I could sink back into unconsciousness. If only I could have slept until my wounds where closed. But that’s not how it works. Movement helps you heal healthy. If you sleep, still until it’s over, the bleeding will stop and new skin will form but once you wake things won’t work the way they are meant to. Or so I was told.
I allowed myself one day to cry and indulge in self pity. One day. No more. And I held myself to that promise. Keeping back tears was easy enough. If only the same could be said for everything else. I couldn’t wait for the day when I could walk with out limping and look back on it all, glad that I was no longer stuck there. It took too long for my liking. Much to long. But once it was over I relished every step, enjoyed running, jumping, dancing.
The pain taught me to appreciate all the things I never knew I loved.