Michaela Stephen
Ripped from the Same Book With her head between her knees, Faye watched the blood drip from her face onto the gravel. The sun beat down on the exposed three inches of flesh between her shirt collar and her recently buzzed neck. Faye pictured her skin as a newborn mole, peeking out at the world for the first time. If she stayed crouched like this much longer, her skin would burn, then peel. Once again, she thanked her mother’s genes for giving her oh-so-sensitive skin. Sweat prickled in the short strands of her pixie cut. She showered this morning, but her head still itched. Faye kept her head down until the drips of blood from her nose began to slow and space out, before finally coming to a stop. The puddle seeped into the ground, leaving a stain on the earth. Maybe someone would come by later and think a person had been assaulted here. Did people call the cops if they saw a puddle of blood but no body? Faye wished she could take back the decision to drive the seven hours from Kamloops to Vancouver Island with Charlotte. Taking the greyhound would’ve been more fun. antilang. no. 2
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