Bruised

I can feel them watching my hand. Mum said to put a band-aid on it. But violetly blue, the bruise still leaks out the side. Still, a week later.

They ask,
what happened?
Oh, the dog.
It bit you?
Mm yeah.

The doctor dog, who bit me for a blood test.
Pulling off my socks, we examined my feet together. Nope. Ankles patterned with scratchy scars that look like veins. We both know there's nothing under there. Tap, tap, squeeze, pump your arm. Nothing.

I wait, breath held, can't look. I can feel his tension, just want that sigh of relief as the veins fill his little vials red. Finally, in quiet desperation, he lowered the tournequit over my head. Will they ever come back? I asked, holding a small cloud of cotton wool to my neck. He looked at me, face expressionlessly smooth. My veins? I repeated. Maybe something caught his attention, through the window, blinds half-drawn. He looked away.