The Bleeding Man by Craig Strete

been all these. It is nothing but trouble.
     
    I have sat on the
good side of the fire. I have cried over young women. It is nothing but trouble.
     
    These are the
words I heard written in his skin. He made me kill her. I had to do it. I am not sorry. I knew.
That is enough, knowing.       —Paul Santell
     
    ( This suicide
note was found near the charred body of Dr. Santell, who, Intercity Police say, apparently soaked
himself with an inflammable liquid and then set himself afire. Dr. Paul Santell, twice recipient
of the Nobel Prize in psycho-chemistry, had been experienc­ing .... —excerpt from Intercity Demographic Area Telepaper. )
     
    The bleeding man,
cured of bleeding, walked with­out haste toward the door leading outside. He remem­bered the
taste of blood, he who no longer had need of it. He pushed the door open and stepped outside. The
sky pulled at him, but he resisted for that last little moment. His feet touched the ground. His
lungs filled with air. His eyes danced on the horizons of the world. Raising his hands into the
air, he let the sky pull him away from the earth. He took the air in his lungs and thrust it out
with a shout. Silently his lips formed words.
    And then he had no
more need of air and words. His fingers curled into the hands of the sky. He disap­peared in a
cloud.
    He Who No Longer
Bleeds is gone. He will return. To bleed again.