The invasion of the lines

Let us explain the line (some exclaim I cannot draw a straight line or it is a fine line between the infinite ray and curved space) with that of Matisse the line was quick and surrounded with color. For Picasso the mind thought the line and creation of the object was in that moment of execution. The line that is on my mind at the moment is composed of my mother's blood, no, wait let me set the scene. I am young and riding beside her on a bright summer day. We are driving to grandmother's house and I am content to suck on a lollipop while staring at the passing scenery then at my mother who is wearing a white blouse stucked into a short, skirt that was black and made even blacker by the extreme whiteness of my mother's legs. Turning into the driveway I turned to grab the door handle when suddenly I was thrown back into the seat and when I turned around to face the driver's door open and mother had one leg in the car and one leg out. Her head had dropped to the steering wheel and as I watched a trickle of red begun to appear from inside her thigh. I could not turn my eyes away as the blood flowed pass the knee, down the calve to the ankle where the stream disappeared underneath the rim of her black pumps. She moved and I looked up into two dark planets orbited by white space and crisscrossed by comets of black hair.
"She's coming..." She whispered from crimson lips. "My little girl wants to go out."
A sister I though as my grandmother like an ancient god materializing out of dark clouds appeared next to my mother and lifted her from the car and onto the front porch.
I touched the pool of blood and draw a picture of a little girl on the inside of my palm. I smiled at my work as someone screamed and I accident's pressed my palms against my face. I will never forget the strange expression of my grandmother as she helped me from the car and saw that the right side of my face was smeared with my mother's blood.
More to come.