Blood has always been one of my more psychotic interests. Just an utterly psycho obsession. Experienced in my early years, surrounding this ominous mentality, was all that you would expect; blood galore. Crimson drops of death, liquefied. We joke, now, of how I really gave Red Rock Canyon it’s name, that of “Red.” Yes, this story is not composed for the faint of heart, more for the other sickos out there, just as I am.

I estimate in the blistering summer of 2006, I was presented this canyon while camping. After a rather brilliant idea from my Father, (Can you feel the sarcasm?) he lead me down into the vermillion belly of the gully, and down the rock of the canyon wall we went. The rocky base was filmed over with slimey algae, indiscernible, all except for the polished lustre it reflected when the light came from the appropriate angle. My Father only insisted I keep hold of his hands, so I don’t slip and break my neck, of course. A series of narrow streams objected the way between us and the dry rock upon which all other climbers, that had additionally scaled down the pit’s walls, stood. Extreme caution, yet eventually his foot just had to slip, and he just had to come to the conclusion that my physique would serve as the desirable landing, as opposed to the jagged rock. (Not on purpose, but his conclusion, nonetheless.) He literally, and I do mean literally, pulled me from the location where I stood safely behind him, to just under his falling figure, between him; this 170 pound man, and the incredibly unwelcoming ground. He pulled himself off me as I perplexedly sat up.

I felt nothing, as if I had an oven mitten layering my entire body. Too numb for comfort. Thanks to some lovely bystanders shouting “She’s bleeding!” whilst looking at the gore that was now my face, I became aware of my situation, and inevitably, all the pain that accompanied it. I wasn’t aware of my situation, or the blood I was losing, or the sudden urge to pass out, but thanks to them, my brain soothed me with the overtly numb sensation no longer.

Blood was pulsing from every orifice my six year old body had to offer. Red warmth was coursing from my face, my chest, my legs. All I saw was beautiful red, that pleasing composition of oxygen and hemoglobin. The left side of my face had been virtually skinned, as were my knees and elbows. My hands were dyed the color of this vital juice, now crawling down the water, following the movement out of sight. Blood pooling at my feet and staining the streams, staining the rock, staining the fabric of the shirt my father used in an efforted attempt to cease the flow from my veins. As I remember it, it felt like there were knives, just inside my skin, scraping at the surface, and where they punctured the flesh, that’s where I bled from, next. A million needles, a million knives.

I showed symptoms of nausea, sudden and extreme tiredness, and dilated pupils: all symptoms of a concussion. (My third concussion, mind you.) Sleep was never lasting, as every third hour I would be awoken by my parent’s fear that I wouldn’t wake up again. My Mother believed I should have gotten about 20 stitches, but camping in the middle of nowhere prevented this attention. A small protrusion in my forehead led us to believe that a rock was actually embedded in my skull. To this day, I still have scars, barely visible marks of this, now, hilarious accident, and thus concludes my bloody past of the canyon. The incredibly Red Rock Canyon.