Excerpt: The Death Of Me

There are a few people who don’t mind the sight of blood or who can at least deal with the sight of other folks’ bleeding well enough to work in medicine. My dad was one such fellow. He taught me from childhood to respect blood for what it does. One time, when I was about six or seven, I had sliced my foot open on the edge of a bike peddle. He stitched me up in the bathroom off our downstairs hallway with tools out of his Gladstone bag and held my attention by telling me about how the blood was magic. He wove a tale as he pulled the thread through my skin that kept me focused on the mystical powers of the jewel-bright stuff seeping through the half-closed gash. I suppose that event cemented in my mind the link between the magic of blood and the magic of stories.

The blood keeps you alive and the stories keep the pain away.