Even years later, he still favoured his right leg.

Those first few days, his fingers inched at the edges of the bruise on his side, from hip to armpit, recoiling before the tips could touch the green and purple border. And never the bright red middle.

There’s be scarring, of course, they’d said. No way around that.

He slept on the couch, his wife wedging the extra cushions under him, so he couldn’t roll. She tucked him in and placed the bags of ice in a along his side.

“I don’t want to blame you,” he said. “But I do.”

Prompt courtesy of the Daily Post.


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