Inside Out [Thundy]

C r u o r  H u g h e s

Hey, what's going on? Whatcha doin' here?
Is there something wrong tonight?
Do you remember who I chose to be?
My best friend in this life

I wear my scars and tattoos like badges of honor. Each one represents a way I have bettered myself, and each one holds more value to me than any jewel or finery. Around me people sport their riches - or their shame at poverty - but I know that money is only a small part of a person's worth. My family isn't rich, not in terms of currency, but we aren't in need either. Still, I never feel poor. The love we all feel for each other means more than any amount of money. A lot of others aren't so fortunate, so I always seek to help them in finding where their true wealth is. I haven't been able to assist all that many people, but eventually I will make an impact - one more real and widespread than the one I have tried to create.

The weight of my small pen knife is a happy burden and I want to bring it out into the light. The passing footfalls of a Peacekeeper holds my urge at bay, denying me the chance to draw up a spring of rubies. If I was caught with a knife, even if I showed and explained my scars, I would grabbed up and hustled off to the Detention Center without a second thought. No one there knew anything about true wealth, or the gift of helping another. I wasn't about to teach them, not now, not yet. If I found myself there then maybe I would, but until I had become the person who I knew I could be - the person impervious to fear and hate - I was better off working out in the open air.

My finger stroked the smooth handle of the pen knife, the metal and wood so well polished that there was nearly no difference to the feel of the two. The catch was simple, able to be activated by slight squeeze, and would release the blade with a small snick. Whenever I heard that sound I knew I would be decorating more of my body, and in that decoration I would further release the real me that lurked under my skin.

I am thought. I am  f l e s h . I am blood. I am bone.
I am thought. I am flesh. I am blood.  I am  b o n e .
I am t h o u g h t . I am flesh. I am blood. I am bone.
I am thought. I am flesh.  I am  b l o o d . I am bone.

My mind buzzed with my ideas and notions, filling my head with cheerful inquiries and comments. That woman had a very bright coloured shawl, which made me smile because I always thought that bright colours were happy. Warm, bright, and overall a lovely colour, the sight of the shawl made me feel just the same. Would mother like a shawl like that? She probably would, she always loved the things I picked out for her. Before I could ask the woman where she got her shawl from, she disappeared into a crowd of people.

They jostled me as they passed, reminding me of the limits of my body. I felt their warmth as they came near, and then I felt the return of the outside temperature as they left - by comparison the air felt chilly. I knew in my veins that my blood flowed, warm, rich, and a beautiful shade of red. The urge to reveal it to the world itched in my finger tips and I gripped my pen knife deftly. With a quick glance around for Peacekeepers, I withdrew the tool of my art and clicked down on the catch. Snick. Ahhh, there was the sound I loved so much.

I spread my fingers wide on my left hand, knife held in my right. Palm up, I looked at the flesh of my hand, choosing my spot. There was only one silver line on this hand, straight and lonesome on the meat of my thumb. Even a scar needed company, and finally I would give this one its companion. The knife point twinkled in the sun's light, smiling at me as I smiled at it. The slice I made was clean and easy, a crescent starting from a point beneath my middle finger to curve around the outward edge of my hand. This was nearly twice the length of the other cut and almost immediately I felt the pleasant sting and burn. Rubies bubbled up from the stroke, first marking it in stark contrast to my pale palm, and then streaking my hand with a vivid red.

I marveled at the feeling, at how the pain had mostly subsided, at the way the blood pooled first in the lines of my hand and then in the center of my upturned palm. A single drop oozed to my wrist before beginning its trek down the landscape of my arm. With a finger, I stopped it. Wiping it away, I lifted the escapee to my lips. Iron spread over my tongue and I smiled. My pen knife was clean, my cut having been swift enough to avoid getting blood on the blade. I flicked it shut and returned it to my pocket.

Then I stood there, watching closely as the blood began to slow. This wound may take a bit to close, but I didn't mind. The wonder of watching myself heal was always an extra joy, something nearly as fascinating as seeing my own flesh become marked first in red and then later in silver.

Softly, a ruby plunged to earth with a gentle pat.

Life doesn't run a clear course
It flows through from within
It's supposed to take you places
And leave markings on your skin