the threads in her head

"I'm bleeding," the child says.

He puts his arm out, extended fully, to show his mother.

It's a small wound, the kind that comes when you pick off your scabs gotten at the playground. There's but only the smallest trickle of blood, not flowing profusely like a deep cut.

Just a small wound.

But his mother doesn't know. She pushes her glasses up gently with one finger, from the side, and continue to gaze at the screen as her fingers flies on the keyboard. "Mmm, honey.. go put some cream on it?.."

There's a pause for a while, as the child looks up at the lady, his mother..

"I'm bleeding," he says again, this time a slight quaver in his voice, the softest hint of a trailing off towards the end.

This time his mother did not even seem to hear.

The child is quiet as he walks off, quiet as he wets a piece of tissue and wipes off the blood. Quiet, as he releases the tissue into the dustbin, and goes off to stand beside the window.

The roars of cars drowned him.