&&&

There was a drop of paint on his foot.

White paint.

It's not like it meant anything, but the paint was swirling in with his recently aqquired wound.

Red and white made pink.

Except for when they swirled. Then it was like a whirlpool that wouldn't leave him alone.

And it stung, oh it stung; the paint kept on swirling in there...

Grabbing a wet clothe he washed the paint off.

It didn't sting as much anymore.

In fact, it was dull. A sort of "just to remind you I'm here!" phone call that one recieved every two or three months from a crazy aunt.

He decided he didn't like it.

So he picked up the paint brush, threw it into the paint can, and then held it above his foot. Waiting for some to drop.

Waiting...

Waiting...

Drop.

Sting.

Swirl.

He smiled.

&&&