There are a few moments of silence before the yowl of a tortured animal screeches through a quiet Sunday - before he can catch a breath to make such a noise, this death-wail despair.
"It's bleeeeeeeding!" and he's high pitched and panicked, feral and shifty as he gasps and sobs - great splashes of pain down a twisted face.
The offending floor - unfinished and uneven in it's docile wait for the new - remains stoic and unapologetic for the stubbing that has split the pinkie.
He limps to the bathroom. Trail of blood upon his foe, crimson stain upon this personal ground zero.
"I - tan't - bweath," eyes so red they too seem to bleed.
"Slow down. Breath deep." Like a yoga instructor.
I clean his wound, battle nurse to his war-lesion. He shakes and shutters, sobs and sniffles. I rinse the cloth, watch this whirlpool of pink - his life coiling around the porcelain drain.
I cut the gauze and apply the ointment and secure with bandages because I have no medical tape.
His face leaks. "Am I dowing to survive?"
The final piece secured. Some of my best work. "Of course you are."
"But has dis ever happened to anyone else in da wowld?"
"Worse than this, even."
I gather him and his snot against my sweater and I carry him to the couch but he won't let go of my neck - hugging me hard like I might absorb all that pain and carry it away from him. "Did evwyone else survive when dis happened to dem?"
"Every single one."
And this seems to calm him because he finally lets go and leans back against the arm rest to begin his recovery.
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