Casey Gilfillan

I sliced my pinky while washing the dishes the other day; I felt the jagged edge pinch me finely enough to separate my flesh, I gasped in anticipation of the response. My skin zipped open in reply, pouring gushing, flowing red in the spout of the kitchen faucet. I had that moment, laughing incredulously at the juxtaposition of the small swipe and the torrential purge of life force from my body, where I finally realize oh shit this is actually really bleeding and I scramble around the room looking for a paper towel or a cloth or something to help apply pressure and seal the flow.

I was washing a mug, one of my favorites – a skeleton cat with floral embellishments – that I had forgotten fell and cracked earlier in the week. The mug was mostly intact, but the curved lip opening was missing a large chunk, which would allow continued use so long as the user did not try to put their mouth on the chipped side. The mug is cute, I didn’t think a chip warranted banishment to the landfill. Even now, I don’t think the mutilation warrants such discardment. Anyway, I just forgot and didn’t look as I stuck my wrist in and scrubbed inside, twisting the cup around my hand. Could’ve been a lot worse than just my pinky, the way I see it. 

Even with the pressure, the blood came for a long time. It bled and bled, and soaked the paper towel and tissue red. It eventually slowed to a drip, and I was able to disinfect and flush it before wrapping it up with a bandaid and some padding, more paper towels for gauze. Once the wound was quiet, swollen but clotted to a pause, I stripped back the adhesive to see the thin line, starting on the outer edge, striking in a harsh slope to the center of my finger. The bludgeoning tempo of my pulse in my finger seemed to double its pace upon engagement with my eyes, I held the hand limply with my left.

Some time thereafter I picked up the sponge and continued washing the dishes, my pinky held slightly out to keep it dry. I swept the kitchen, wiped the counters, and started sorting through the mail. With the thumping from my palm, the soreness from the bruising on my ankles, the tenderness from taking a paw to the abdomen, a little piece of me chewed off and spit out at each stop as you climb your way up. Staggering from each point to the next, defying and rejecting death until it snatches me up at last. What difference does it make if I sliced my pinky or cut it clean off, I am no less myself with the loss. A little bit of blood, a little bit of flesh, gone forever yet I remain steadfast. Like a ship with all of its boards being slowly replaced, ripped off one by one and filled in with something new and sturdy and promising of future. Each of my cells, chopped, burned, radiated, asphyxiated into dysfunction until regeneration brings new, viable replacements. It’s still the same ship after all the repairs, all the parts swapped and revitalized. It’s still the same body even with the new skin, the repopulated blood. It is the same brain with that echoing consciousness that rattles amorously about nothing, looking for something in everything.

Today my finger is flat again, slightly red around the incision, which is now a thick, scarlet scar. I bumped it twice already and caused it to bleed again. I let the mug soak in soapy water overnight, gently scrubbing the inside with as much of my hand skewed away from the cup itself during the process as possible. I put it back into its normal spot amongst the others in the cabinet, thought about adding a note so that I wouldn’t forget again next time. No, I’ll remember, I thought as I shut the cabinet.