I was told to expect bruises. "Hello!" I'd say, unaware of what they looked like. I had to take shots on my butt every alternate day for some years. Lying still for a few minutes, the cold of the soothing antiseptic only sharpened the feeling of something having hurt me. Then I'd look up and laugh.

One day I picked up the courage to face the scars. I stood before the mirror and turned to one side, then the other. It seemed as though I had been branded. Strangely enough, they looked beautiful, like tattoos. I imagined them in various shapes - a snake curling towards the tailbone, a crab on silky sand, or a pond craning to see its own reflection.

Soon I would know whether the iron that deserted my soul when I needed it most had at least found a home in my bloodstream.

My blood was hospitable. Platelets danced in it. It had become a crowded room, with too many gatecrashers. They called themselves guests. My blood was a perfect host. It let them stay; they drank off it, a squat glass of Bloody Mary salted at the rim. I got the message. Tears dotted the lashes to mimic what was inside.