You stared at yourself in the mirror, your reflection hazy in the tarnished glass. Your fingertips gently brushed over your bruised cheek, nursing the tender skin that had already turned a dark purple. You dipped your fingers into the tin that rested on your lap, smearing the salve across your cheekbone. You winced as you massaged it in.

It 's curious, isn 't it, how the brain chooses which details of life it desires to remember and which ones it chooses to toss aside. What 's frustrating is that you 're never given a say in the matter.

And then, as if to twist a knife into an open wound just for the pleasure, sometimes such details are flashed in one 's mind without warning or prompt. And there they stay in the forefront of your mind as your eyes glaze over and your brain picks and pecks and pecks and picks until all that 's left is a splotchy, bloody mess of a memory. It 's as though your brain refuses for your hurt to properly scab over and heal.