Friday the 13th strikes
All I know for sure is that, one moment, I was holding this boombox in my left hand and a glass in my right. And then next moment, I had the boombox in my right hand, and there was all this glass everywhere. And then I noticed my hand.
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my own blood anywhere but in the very controlled context of a hospital. Probably since I was thirteen, actually. But there it was, coming out of my hand in four places.
It’s funny. When I was a kid, my little sister and I used to have a joke that our mother’s answer to everything was: run it under cold water. And it’s amazing how often this is actually the right thing to do. But this time all it did was hurt more and bleed more.
The blood kept coming even after I held paper towels to the wounds for a few minutes. In between, I could see a paper-hole-punch-sized bit missing from my palm. I’m sure it’s still on the kitchen floor somewhere.
The bleeding finally stopped after I put Band-Aids on tightly in three places. It was then that I sighed and looked up at the calendar: Friday the 13th.
The dishes can wait until tomorrow. And, if anyone asks, I’m going to tell them that there’s a madman running around out there with a three hole puncher.