I look at my severed finger on the floor, then to the jigsaw. I see the blood, then I look at my hand. It finally comes together. My project for Jimmy, a quick bench for his backyard, claimed my digit.
Cup of ice.
I plant my finger like a seedling.
While I wait, I watch the cup. I don’t know why, but it was better than looking at my hand.
Blood dripped from the bandage.
It was a slight comfort to watch it, I supposed. How abstract, to see a part of you physically elsewhere. I had nightmares about this kind of stuff as a kid.
Should I unlock the door, in case I pass out?
I peer from the window. Nothing yet. With the door open, I can hear faint sirens…or am I faint?
I start back to my seat in front of my finger. As I approach, I see a small green stem sprouting from the top of my nail bed. The room goes dark as I fall to the floor.
Copyright WB Welch – All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
Happy Wednesday to you all. I have signed up to be part of Blogtober this fall, which means I will be putting out daily blog posts. This is the most email my subscribers will ever receive from me. I hope it’s not too much of a burden to your inbox. Thanks for sticking with me. Enjoy your Blogtober scary shorts!