Wells’ The Time Machine (MGM, 1960), starring Rod Taylor, the entirety of which I watched while almost bleeding out. I was a bit faint and in something of a science fictional mood. At that point, I assumed I bled out in an alternate universe. As he stitched up my arm, the doctor muttered that if the cut had been another centimeter toward my wrist, I’d be dead already. She sat me in front of the TV and wrapped my arm in a yellow beach towel, which soon turned dark red, so leaden with blood that it made a squishing noise when I moved. My mother telephoned for someone to watch my sister, and then for a doctor who might open his office on a Sunday. But when I saw shards of glass in the frame, I jerked away, leaving a two-inch gash in my forearm. At the age of ten, while running on my family’s patio I slipped and put my arm through the window of the kitchen door.
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