A kiss of spectacular time lapse invaded. It was my soul who was with the peach sunset. She was surrounded by pungent smell of the sea, drenched with bottles of beer, coarse white sand between her toes. Melancholic sea waves were reaching the melody of LANY songs in my ears.
My soul’s fortune was in woe for a drunk man, war freak one, dauntlessly took a thrust of a wrecked bottle of liquor in her eyes. In a slow motion, fireworks and lighters had crooked into flame of curse. She thought it was only a bubble of woolgathering but probably a Gehenna.
Susurrous mind transported eye water in my rogue sentiment. It wasn’t totally spot of shadows but world of darkness.
“Where am I?” silently I screamed.
Words of an old man busticated my thumping heart like gravel, “As the body does its work on the inside a dry temporary crust--- a scab---forms over the wound as the damaged skin heals underneath.”
But those disputes attacking my mind reminded me of someone who muddled my diplomatic being. A man who daubed wounds, blisters, scratches, and burns. He’s a man who mocked to be a doctor who counsels medicine but actually resembled an assassin who steals life. And he’s the man who had filched my eyesight and prophecy.
Chasing echoes of conversation, I asked, “Dr. Ko, are my eyes thoroughly dented? When will my vision come back?”
Dr. Ko whispered, “Miss, in your instance, you are suffering from Punctured Eyeball. It means a sharp object has completely torn the cornea or sclera. This can happen with tiny objects thrown by a lawnmower. We’re sorry but...”
I gripped the old man’s hand as I stopped him, “They say, it takes 7 to 10 days for a wound to heal, a wound that breaks portion of the body and causes undetermined infections.”
He asked, “But what if these wounds are more precarious than what you think? Will it take months or years for those to heal? Of course, it’s not. There is bleeding in the space between the cornea and the iris of your eyes caused by blunt trauma. Your eyes were totally damaged.”
Sluggishly, he closed the door.
Furious, I slurred, “What if stitches or staples are still not enough to close these wounds? As time passes by, these wounds are getting contaminated. How can these wounds trap bacteria from the past if they are still open? Shall I wait for n days before cleansing them? The dirt is still here, enfolding around these wounds. Can I just steep them in the bathtub to thwart aridness? Come on! Tears are not enough to let scabs come out. Shall I take Mefenamic Acid to halt the pain? Can I use Isoprophyl Alcohol to rid infections? But it might leave dark spots. How can I protect these wounds? Oh, I forgot to remind myself that you’re neither a doctor nor an antidote because you’re these wounds. I was and am hurt but why am I the one who’s curing you? Can you just leave and live in someone else’s body who can endure the pain that you’ve brought.
Take a look at these gashes, they are still bleeding. In the end, I won’t be able to use these eyes. I could see nothing but obscurity. Tell me, how can I live this torment? Oops! Can you diagnose these wounds, the real ones? Maybe not, because all you can grasp is your own wound.”
The wind yelled, “Enough with your metaphors. I think what torments you is not the wounds in your eyes but the one who painted those wounds.”
Great article