She came to on the bathroom’s hard floor. Deep bone pain seared her cheekbone as she lifted her head to wipe the drool from the side of her face; a small, clear pool marked her desperate state on the floor.
Hetty's mind slipped to the few hours priors. She could feel the bright winter sun on her skin, a reminder of the past days of warmth when autumn had reigned and bestowed its easy days and cool nights.
Hetty stared at her hands splayed on her lap, covered in blood. She studied the blood’s different life stages—wet, sticky, dry, flaky—and blew warm breath onto her raised hand. Minute particles of blood floated into the air.
A life filled with living creates many memories, sometimes not so readily remembered, at least not all that accurately. When I was a small child, I started a journal, my attempt at anchoring my life, though I know I wouldn't have called it that then.