The Finger

Reads: 175  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 3

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
This story, like the majority of my stories, is a metaphor. I could explain exactly what each word means to me, but I don't want to ruin the effect it may have on a reader who can apply these sentences to his or her own situations in life. If you really, really want to know where all this is coming from, just message me.

Submitted: August 10, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 10, 2012

A A A

A A A


I am looking at my hand. More specifically, I am looking at one of my fingers. Focusing in on the details. I can see the tiny hairs stretching out of the pores in the skin around this digit. It must be a coincidence that it's the third one from the left. Looking at the pores, undoubtedly miniature caves that lead to the underside of the largest of all human organs. Nerve endings attached from underneath, holding on tight, ready to strike the alarm the brain requires to tell the body that something out of place is happening.

 
Something shiny caught my attention right next to my hand. The reflection of the light in the room on the silver metal is only a shimmer. The single dim lit light bulb gives off that yellowish glow that I can only connect with the words confused,… neurotic.
 
I feel torn. My focus keeps shifting from the side of my middle finger, with all the creases it has acquired over the years of being used, bent and bruised, to the sharp edge of the cold metallic object on the table. Again, I look at the soft, carbon based fragile creation; this finger. I should avoid an encounter with the thinly machined piece of steel with all my strength… is what my instinct says. Still the enticing idea of feeling something… anything at all, makes me push reason and logic deep down into the caverns created over the years by painful experiences of disappointment.
Two complete opposites urging to come together in one swift motion. I don't stop it. I encourage the encounter. But not only that, I initiate it.
 
My other hand, that's been out of focus, picks up the single sided, single minded feeling enhancer. I'm focusing on my finger. More specifically I'm focusing on the part of my finger that is about to be penetrated. Once again, I see the tiny pores, this time magnified a thousand fold. In slow motion I am watching my other hand set the blade on the skin of the finger I've been staring at for what seems like an eternity. I feel nothing… I need to apply more pressure, maybe some friction. I have to feel something.
 
The skin is slowly caving in under the artificial weight of the razor's corner. I don't want to watch, but I can't look away. Then it happens. There is a split second delay between the next few events.
First, the skin's lack of integrity opens up the path to its underworld. The nerve endings have no chance to react fast enough. Warm plasma is exiting the opening, covering the intruder as well as the surroundings of the subdued fleshy extremity. There is no violent spray of blood, just a slow and thick flow of crimson. The severed nerves seem to have recovered from the shock and are going into a state of panic. I need to apply even more pressure now to make them understand what is really happening. Further opening the opening, their frantic message has reached the brain.
"THERE IS A FUCKING INTRUSION!"
The slow motion stops and everything happens really fast. Pain… Pain is just a message. Something is happening that is not supposed to be happening. A burning Pain.. Every continuous slice by the blade feels like a heated thin piece of silk melting itself into my skin.
 
Here comes the adrenaline. This cocktail of chemicals…, pupils dilated… I pull the blade out of the fresh wound. It continues to bleed. I think to myself, another scar to add to my collection… my roadmap of experiences… but this one is special. It's rare for me… self inflicted pain. I've done it before…. I should have learned. I think I did learn… I crave it. The kind of pain I can be a part of, not the sudden kind I have no control over. That can happen to anyone… The kind of pain I am a part of, the kind I can control… I can feel the next push of chemicals rushing down.
Serotonin! Ooooh Serotonin….
I remember now what this is all about. Serotonin, come to me. Soothe me. Flow through my veins and give me your warmth… That is all I wanted the entire time… to feel warm. Don't leave yet. Stay a little longer. The wound will heal… they always heal.
Don't heal too fast though… it feels too good… it feels.
I feel.
 
 
by: Thomas Namdar, (c) 2012, July 5th (The Finger)
 
Artwork by: Emily Ann aka xXMrs-ToddXx


© Copyright 2017 Thomas Namdar. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

Comments

avatar
avatar

Author
Reply

avatar

Author
Reply

avatar

Author
Reply

More Flash Fiction Short Stories

Booksie 2017-2018 Short Story Contest

Booksie Popular Content

Other Content by Thomas Namdar

The Finger

Short Story / Flash Fiction

Too Soon...

Short Story / Flash Fiction