Wounds Small Enough for Bandaids

100-word microfiction

Mom always told me not to pick my scabs. I never listened: faint, predictable pain was almost pleasure, was far better than feeling nothing.

I miss the coppery taste and gummy mouthfeel of scab chunks peeled from my knees and elbows, miss watching my blood ooze from carefully preserved wounds, mix with summer sweat, and wind down my limbs in quick red ri…