Before I can do anything I feel a quick drop falling onto the edge of my lip, into my mouth. They say blood runs thicker than water, but if so, why don’t I have time to stop it? It’s described as hot, slowly coating everything and cracking, but to me it’s cold, the salty drops scurry down my throat. To some extent the descriptions are right; it dries fast and cracks before reaching my stomach, leaving my throat rough and dry. It coats the roof of my mouth, somehow passing from my nose to my gullet without leaving my body. I can taste it on my tongue, in the back of my throat, below my gums. The substance feels so liquid at first but dries within seconds, leaving me uncomfortable and itchy. On good days that’ll happen first. It’s a warning. Most days, however, it’s not that courteous. It sneaks up on me, then with a surprise attack, it drops out, leaving crusty stains on my clothes, my books, my schoolwork. On the worst days, it’ll do its work without even waking me. The pillow that had been white just the night before becomes maroon by morning, still damp but somehow stiff. I wake up with a thin layer covering my cheeks, blood still trickling out of my nose. It doesn’t like to stop; I go through at least seven tissues each time. They flood as quickly as the Tiber in spring. The red expands onto the white, slowly engulfing the entire tissue until it no longer absorbs it, but works as a plug. When I take it out to replace it the liquid that had been trapped inside comes out all at once and then continues to trickle. Even when it stops its not gone. The taste, the dryness in my throat, the crusty remains on the tip of my nose are still there.
