Hey Hollywood. This is blood. It isn’t the corn syrup and food coloring you pour all over the "vic" in "CSI" and it isn’t the strawberry pie gel you smear on the mirror in "Castle." It’s really red and it’s really runny and it’s opaque and not clear, okay? And it flows from ugly people just like it does from pretty people. My dogs know the difference. It's not that they wouldn't like strawberry pie gel but they like blood for sure. They are only semi-domesticated after all.
I said to them, when they began to clean me, "Take this into yourselves, Wolf and Dingo, so that you will be a part of me and I of you and you will always know my scent and my taste and even when I am dying make me a part of you who will live on." Ollie is eager, like my blood is a treat; but Roy is tender. He cleans my face of the blood I smeared there. I wanted to make it look right in my rage with the knife, but tell the truth I was afraid I would tear out an eye so I only smeared the blood on my face from my cut arms instead. My arms are already scarred and ugly anyway. They were brown and muscular once. I wore a blue chambray shirt and a white camisole and a turquoise necklace and I looked like a woman—even in jeans and boots I looked like a woman. Now I don’t even make an ugly man. My body is fat and weak and ugly and my mind is stupid and that past feels like junk left on the highway, especially the part where I felt like I might have been the least bit desireable.
I am bleeding down there too—red blood still flowing at the end of a time of usefulness. I could have been a nice parter for someone who understood. I am empathic and kind for the most part but I have a wicked temper. I get angry at myself and I usually take it out on firewood or chairs but tonight the craft knife was too close.
The dogs knew enough to stay away until the smell of blood overcame any fear. Roy sensed the self-hatred long before Ollie, even from outside. He came in and checked on me and then waited outside again to see what sounds might follow. When my rage quieted he came in with dilated eyes and ears back, desiring to help but afraid I’d yell at him like some former owner must have done. I had to invite them both to come in. "It’s all right," I said softly. Then, hoping that self-hatred has no flavor, I invited them to remember me.