Out playing at a friend's house when we hear the thwack.
The shocked pause.
The yell, slowly building to crescendo.
It's different, more acute, something's wrong.
She comes in slowly, sobbing, wailing, clutching her nose.
But you don't even see her.
All you can see is the blood.
It's everywhere, dripping, pumping, unbelievably bright,
Soaking into her clothes, her hair, the floorboards.
You grab the super-absorbent kitchen roll,
But it has no chance of staunching the flow.
With every sob a fresh gush of blood, spit and tears.
Wad after wad of wet crimson tissue piles up.
You try to calm her, but all she can see is the blood.
Finally, it starts to slow.
The flow of fresh tissues thins
Until you're left holding one mottled rag,
Dabbing at her lips and nose.
Her breathing calms.
She clutches a teddy, miraculously unsullied.
It's time to go home.
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