Ugly red scabs pepper the backs of my hands from my skin searing against metal. It was always an accident. A distracted slip of the finger or graze on the back of my hand. My wrists. My arms. Over time, the older wounds faded to purple, though never truly erasing their existence. Two days ago, another slash of charred skin began puckering, but not enough to scratch it. Thoughts of peeling the tough skin swarm my mind. I glance down at my hand again. Pale edges halo the heart of the burns, tempting me to peel them off. So tempting….

Henry says that I have a problem leaving injuries alone, but I dismiss him every time. I dig my other pointer finger nail below the surface of my burns, ignoring the sharp stinging of the exposed flesh. Moisture gathers in the outer corner of my eye, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. Scarlet starts to pool the open wound, drowning it by the second. Some twisted satisfaction warms my temples at the sight.

“Stop it,” he says, lightly swatting away my picking hand. “Don’t pick at it.”

“But I want to.” I move my hand back to the lesion, wiping away the blood. It pools faster this time, a thick clot beginning to form a bubble on my skin.

He pulls my hand away again, not acknowledging my statement while gently dabbing the blood with a tissue. “I’ll get you a Band-Aid,” he says as he stands up from the couch, moving towards the bathroom.

I wait for him to disappear behind the door before I prod at the abrasion again. Maroon smears on my palm. On my fingers. Beneath my nails. I pick and scratch until there’s nothing else to remove. Only then do I stop.

Henry comes back into the room with a bandage and a tube of antibiotic ointment in one hand and a cloth in the other. He eyes me knowingly before glimpsing at the mess on my hands.

Silently he presses the damp fabric around my hand, careful not to rip any more skin open: I don’t have the same sentiment. My eyes glaze over as I stare into the distance, allowing him to clean my hands. He coats the fresh skin in the ointment before placing a bandage over it, not saying a word. Not making a sound. There’s nothing to say that hasn’t already been said before. 

After stalking back to the bathroom to put his supplies away, he plops down onto the couch and lifts an arm around my shoulder, tucking me into his side. He presses play on the movie, focusing intently on the screen.

And all I can think about is the vermilion beneath the bandage.