When you get wounded, the blood gushes out. You can only put pressure on it and hope that one day the bleeding will stop, and that you will still be alive when it does.
Then it finally stops, the gushing and the life that was trickling out of you. Gone.
You start to feel better, even optimistic. But perhaps optimism is a drug for the hopeless, it poisons your mind into thinking that “Everything will be OK”.
Until you realise that the wound is festered. Until you realise there is something worse than dying due to heavy blood loss. Until you see the pus seeping out, oozing out of your wound to torture you. The infection pains you even more than the wound did before, it was as if someone rubbed salt into you wound, the tiny explosions of every single molecule in your gash was unbearable, and you make a decision
A clean cut.
After a while it will heal, you think.
After a while it will return to normal, you think.
After a while that gap in your wound would be filled again, you think.
But the cold truth will always freeze your soul: There will always be that grotesque dark scar that clings to you where the wound once was.
Even if you cover it up with new skin, or fake skin, when you close your eyes, you will see it in your mind.
You will feel it, for it is now a part of who you are that can never be taken away again.