"Like I said, there's nothing but blood." she said, after he had peeled back the skin.

He was squeamish at the sight of blood, and ran off, forgetting to bring her a towel with which to clean up the mess. Instead, he left her laying on the floor bleeding, without the courage nor the strength to dial 911.

"Oh dear, who will do it now?" she half said, half thought out loud. The kitchen tiles were hard and cold. Everything was silent. This was the same floor she'd been lain on as a child and here she was decades later. Quickly losing the blood. It used to be a game, see how much you could make come out, making designs on tissues. Smiley faces and A's. It was always a matter of life and death, but life always had it's cock in her mouth. And now she was bleeding. The people outside her window walked by and she could hear some old men having a conversation on the porch. She could picture them, faces beginning to slip off the bones, as they sat crookedly in their rocking chairs. She tried to call out, but her voice was tattered and couldn't even resound past her own failing skin. In her mind's eye she was flailing her arms, but the weakness was taking over now. She could not call out. So she listened to the birds and watched the plants grow and waited for the draining to end.