cleaning out the files, it seemed the corroded stacks of paper were almost clinging to the drawer. as she tugged more violently, one piece took offense and slyly snicked along the soft skin of her wrist, briefly, but long enough to part several layers and set a sting.
swearing softly, she flinched and released the sheaf to inspect the damage. now a papercut isn’t a very lethal thing, but often, that is what makes it so painful… just enough of a cut to hurt, not enough to push you into a rage.
at least, not initially.
she stood still and held the inner wrist closer for inspection. marking the thin, pink lines of the incision with her eye, tracing them to each end, noting the ‘v’ shaped termination points from which the lightest pinking was beginning to rise.
holding the wrist limply with her hand, she swore, softly. but her fingers weren’t content and followed an urge her mind whispered behind the veil of consciousness. nimbly splaying, whorls of textured tips landing with pressure, then pulling in opposite directions, the sheen of stretched skin glimmering until the tearing point as a more ready thread of crimson spilled over the surface and splatted lightly onto the floor.
yelping in surprise, she dropped the arm, and stood a time without moving. eyes glazed over, thoughts racing down the mysterious labrinyth of being, trembling intermittently as expressions played like shadows over her face.
the sheaf of paper, forgotten, giggled madly from its rusty drawer, exchanging wicked repartee with the hooked edge of metal that had hoped to catch her hand and failed for it’s partner’s innovation.
meanwhile, she was in full palsy now… the steady polkadot dot dot dot making infinity circles on the tile below. she glanced down, numb and quiet, and reached over once more to lift the wound closer.
stumble stepping to the corner of the room, propping herself into it, cradling the streaming cut and then trapping it against cool plaster, the other hand returned, and again, set to its work.
flexing and tearing, first a rivulet, then a surge, then a river… ruby drool joined the effort as her lip found its way too close to chattering teeth.
somewhere in the back of her mind, there was laughter. the textures and shading of the now gorey opening drew her in, hypnotized her, she could hear a sing-song lullaby coming from somewhere just behind the artery.
hooking it with the index finger, she leaned in close, listening and feeling it throb and writhe and seeing the glistening strain of it against the callous of her hand. writer’s callous. she laughed without inflection as she rolled the delicate tubing over it, watching it fray and part, the spray of oxygenated life painting carefree patterns on the corner wall that trickled to sluggish halt as coagulation arrived.
the coroner was confounded. they reported it as an accident.
but the sheaf knew better.