opinios

So there I was, writing away, when I felt the sudden urge to do handstands. This was a habit I had developed while procrastinating against studying for university exams. I could escape up and coming deadlines (temporarily of course) by walking around on my arms, the blood rushing to my head and giving me a buzz.

I took a quick look around, made sure no-one was watching, and boldly strolled around upside-down for a bit. It felt good, but I needed more of a challenge�c

The park bench! Of course! I cleared my books and letters aside, placed one hand on the seat and the other on the backrest, and launched my feet into the air�c

Something felt wrong. My previously strong arms were unable to fight the forces of gravity working against them, and I saw the wooden slats of the bench up close, then the concrete below, as I fell on my face.

I was angry! I think it is a natural instinct for a bloke immediately following unexpected pain. I frowned, leapt to my feet and quickly surveyed the area for any witnesses to my failed acrobatics. Luckily there were none. I checked my temple, and the base of my neck where the sharp pain was beginning to make itself known. Both checks left smears of blood on my hand. Bewildered, I made a bee-line for my apartment, where I would be able to scream in pain out loud and pitifully sink into my bed rather than the restrained curses I was emitting.

After wiping the gravel from my wound I began to inspect the damage. A triangular cut dangerously close to my right eye was inducing a dark blue shiner that I would not be able to conceal at work tomorrow. But most fascinating was the inch and a half long cut on my collarbone, a gaping would that in hindsight probably should have been treated with stitches. The more I stared at it in the mirror under the guise of concern for my own safety, the more I became caught up in my own twisted vanity.

The cut was beautiful; it was so aesthetic and perfect.

I was disfigured and unique and felt invincible and dangerous and sly. I admired my new face, my new body, my new profile of brooding, tough, daring, bleeding mad artist. I posed for myself in the mirror; I took bizarre photos with my top off, focussing on my precious wound and the evil power that it had bestowed upon me, arms twisted, eyes challenging the viewer of my photograph to accept this freak.

I came down from my artistic high, showered gingerly and slumped back into my $150/night bed. It wasn't until the next day that I realised there was no film in my camera, saving me from embarrassment at the Kodak processing shop.

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Submitted by Matthew Magain