I’ve written about this particular memory before in my notebooks. Scars are a constant reminder of something that once happened. My scar is small but the memory still looms large. Anyway, those thoughts aside, here’s what I wrote for today’s prompt.
Writing Prompt No. 8
I cut my finger once. Sliced it right open.
I was about five years old and trying to be helpful by carrying a clean glass to put away in the cupboard. There was a rug on the floor. One of those heavily patterned Persian style ones. There was a hole along the edge where it wasn’t lying quite flat on the floor. I caught my foot as I walked over it and fell. The glass shattered across my hand, my little finger catching the sharpest pieces. The scar reaches all the way down my finger to where it joins the top of my palm.
I was in my night things at the time. All clean from a warm bath, nightie on, dressing gown on, slippers on. My Mum wrapped my hand up in a tea towel. I don’t remember the blood. My Mum does. And she was a nurse. My Dad took me to the army clinic where a doctor stitched the skin while my Dad held me on his lap. I had six stitches. I do remember them being pulled out which hurt, all that tugging on my skin. I kept them for a while in a cupboard in the kitchen on a small bed of cotton wool. But my finger healed crooked; bent down inwards. I wasn’t happy when the doctor tried to straighten it out gently.
I had to go into hospital and have the skin cut again and re-stitched os it would heal straight. There was a nurse there who said I could only have a bowl of ice-cream after I’d eaten all the peas on my plate. But then, maybe I’m mixing up my memories.
It’s straight now. My little finger.
Please do share your own stories in the comments below.