Of Cuts And Pain

I cut my finger on Thursday. I was trying to remove the thick staple of a very thick document, when my finger just slided and got cut in the process. Luckily it was just a scratch, nothing really serious.

Coincidentally, I realise that it is the same finger that got cut. Why is it always this particular finger? The number of times I was cut, it was the same finger. And yet there are hardly any major scars to show, which is a good thing actually.

The first time I cut my finger was way back in lower primary. I was trying to cut an apple, when the small knife sliced my finger. Needless to say, I bawled and wailed and my dad had to apply cream and kissed it to make it better.

The second time the finger was cut (or scratched to be more appropriate) was when I was in upper primary. I was trying to open up a durian, when the thorns scratched me. Again, I cried and screamed until my grandma put a plaster over it.

But the one time I can really remember vividly when my finger was cut was the time I was with my first ex. He was making a bookshelf, so was using the electric drill. He wanted my help, but I had no idea how to help him, since I could not differentiate between a nut and a bolt. In my opinion, all are nails to me.

Anyway, his mother started talking to me, and he lost his concentration and cut his hand. He started screaming at his mum for talking to me and making him cut his hand. I was feeling rather offended, as I could never stand someone being rude to his mother. I wonder why his mum allowed him to get away with it? My mother would have slapped the living daylights out of me if I even dared to raise my voice at her.

So I told him to blame me since I was also talking to his mother, why must he scream at his mum? His mum took a wet towel and gave it to me, asking me to wipe away the blood. I was so terrified of blood, but I wiped it away for him just the same.

He just pushed me away and said that I was unsympathetic, and how would I feel if I got my hand cut? To which he brought out a small knife from his tool box and really sliced my finger. I was too shocked to say anything.

Tears started welling up, not because of the cut, but more for the blood and pain, and mostly because someone I loved (and always claimed he loved me) could physically hurt me. I was still holding the wet towel, so I just put it on my finger in order to stop the pain, to which he grabbed it from me and said he was the one who had the worse cut, and if I wanted to cry, get out.

The next time I cut my finger was last year, when I was cooking for someone I liked. Not really just for him, but for a pot luck party I was going to. But since he was going to be there, I slaved over the stove almost the whole afternoon, and cut my finger when I was chopping up some meat.

So now my finger had been cut by knives, scratched by durian thorns, and now cut by the sharp edge of a staple. Not to mention the minor paper cuts I suffered. All on the same finger. Hmmm... wonder if I can recycle this particular finger, then perhaps I can get rid of the little scars and it will be as good as new.