I stand above the kitchen sink, blood dripping flowing into the sink, the pain virtually not there as a bit of shock and panic ensue.  I rapidly grab the paper towel on the edge of the sink’s rim, the flesh hanging on by a thread as I flip it over the wound wrapping and putting pressure onto my finger tip. I stood there holding this mess of a situation for what seemed like minutes not because of the shock, but for the embarrassment.

How long had it been, maybe 3 minutes swallowing my shame, I use my phone.  Beep, my sister in law picks up the phone and I tell them what I've done lying about how it had happened due to my embarrassment; she talks to me, asking how I feel, hows my finger, and that she  and my brother are on the way. There in my well lit tiled floored room, I stand above the sink not moving. All I have to stare at is the separated window that sits above the sink, the stainless steel fringe next to the countertop that extends to the corner of the kitchen  and to the sink, and the wooden cabinets that hang the candy red walls of this beautiful  kitchen. The kitchen, usually filled with emotions of joy and the smell of food, is now filled with embarrassment and the smell of blood.

The door handle to the laundry room opens, my brother and his fiance walk in through the laundry to the kitchen. My brother looks alike to me but with differences such as hair that is flat besides in the front where it comes up into a tuft. His face is a bit longer and his eyes shine with blue pupils, my brother is shorter despite being 7-8 years older  . My sister in law, a considerate and caring woman wearing long brown hair whose features are soft. Both help me relax as we all wait for my father, a balding man who shares his long face and blue pupils with my brother but lacks the softness of youth.

He takes me to my bathroom through the living room to the hallway and finally the bathroom. Scraps and cuts you would get a bandaid, what I got was  tape to hold the flapping flesh down. My father opened the cabinets that stand right next to the sliding bathroom door. He pulled out all kinds of medical items that I had never seen. Gauze, medical tape strips and bandages to name a few of what covered my now mummified finger.

 Several days later  , my dad tried to force the bandage off my finger as it had healed but it hurt and he was trying to force it. So in the end I, with my brother's support, slowly removed it. Piece by piece slowly peeling off the bandage , snip… snip, the scissors cut off the difficult pieces. Nearing the end all that remains is a cap on the tip of my finger made of tape that once freed I pull off. The bloody gorey finger that was there was nothing but  a small cut now.

It healed a bit longer until and to this day there is a small piece of skin that looks like an air bubble. Nowadays, anytime I pick up a knife or a sword I feel that air bubble that sits on top of my middle finger. My first ever injury due to the mishandling of something sharp, sometimes,  laying  in bed, I touch that air bubble and the thought of the pain, shock and embarrassment come back to me; a reminder that messing around with dangerous objects can leave you scarred.