Parentheses It wasn’t much of a cut; a nick of the knife cutting potatoes for dinner. He sucked his finger and grabbed some paper towel, allowing for the moment when the body looks for other abrasions as evidence of mortality. This scratching of the surface to determine the strength, if any, that lies beneath the fragile surface of skin as a counterpoint to the idea that our will and mind is as strong as steel, noticing the flaws of the human body as miraculous. He inhales the iron-infused scent of the wound and knows the memory of Dettol is in its smell, that acrid odour breathed in like an hallucinogen that reminds the lungs how much they love the taste of air. Scrounging in the medicine box he pulled out the box of Band Aids and settled into the parentheses of healing as the blood soaked into the pad.
A Fullness in Brevity - Adam Byatt 