Blood

There was blood all over the track pit floor this morning. The congealed aftermath of collision; someone's knee, someone's finger, or someone's heart. The resident Pit Crew cared too greatly for the cleanliness of their hands to oblige the best interests of passersby and opted, instead, to refuse aknowledgement of the scarlet splotches. They lay there for altogether too long, growing stubborn and setting into the concrete.

"Whenever we're dealing with blood or bleeding, its important to clean up the mess immediately." I'd have to tell them with some newfound voice of responsibility. I was a manager now, and to blame, after all. The pit was currently vacant however, and my audience of earless crimson splatter was likely to smear before caving to verbal persuasion.

Of whose blood this was I had some idea. What did it matter? We all bleed. We all have our fingers crushed on occasion before pulsing bold streams of the heart onto pavement. I remember striking incidences of walking barefoot on a sundeck laden with holly-spines and then running, red, in a hat and suspenders of the same, for solace from this reminder of human flaw.

This wasn't my error, but for its lingering remnants I am accountable. Blood, that could bind entire families in unspoken alliance, soaking a yellowed wake across the pit floor with the indulgent trigger-flicks of a fantastik bottle. I'm wearing gloves, if you promise not to smear.