Jem Jones Linkup: Quirk #7//In Which Blood Happens

Okay, this was ridiculously fun to write. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! If you'd like to join in with Jem's Quirks, the prompt for this one is HERE. :)

Also, two things: #1, this is one of the first times I've written from the POV of a male protagonist, so that was interesting. And #2, yes, this actually happened (well, the cut part. Not the male-is-the-one-who-gets-cut and he-is-grown-up-and-married parts). To me. (Eight stitches, guys. And I still have the scar.)

She turns around in the doorway and turns her face up for a kiss. I readily oblige.

"Have fun, my love," I tell her, as I pull away.

"Thanks, I will."

"And don't bring home too much junk, okay? I know how you and that sister of mine are about antique shops."

"Bring home junk? Me? Never."

I chuckle. "Okay. Well, see you this evening."

"Sounds good! I love you."

"Love you, too."

She turns and heads out the door. The house suddenly feels quieter, even though she's not very loud. Oh well, I'll be powering up the drill in not too long to work on the table she wants, so it won't be quiet for long. But first, dishes. My wife takes antiques very seriously, so seriously that she left the sink full of dirty plates on her way out to meet my sister for a day of antiquing. And, of course, the plates are, you guessed it, antique, and, from the way she talks about them, priceless. So I have to wash with care. I roll up my sleeves, squeeze some soap onto the sponge, and dive in.

I'm on the last dish, a new milk jug that I bought not too long ago, when it happens. The jug slips out of my hand, I try to catch it, there's a crack, and suddenly there's broken glass in the sink and a very strange feeling in my right hand. 

My first thought is, my wife will be thrilled that I broke this. My second is, why does my hand hurt so much?

I look down cautiously, almost afraid. Blood oozes from a two-inch gash just below the bottom of my thumb. Dang. That looks deep. 

I grab a wad of paper towels and apply pressure, wincing all the while. After five minutes of pressure the paper towels are saturating with blood, and the bleeding has slowed down slightly. I carefully pull the towels back and look at the cut again. Yep. Gonna need stitches. I'd better call my lovely wife, because there's no way I'm going to be able to work on the table, given that I'm going to be heading to the hospital.

I pick up the phone. We still have one that's attached to the wall with a cord, because, as I've observed, my wife is obsessed with the antique and the vintage. At least she consented to get a smart phone, even though she protested on "aesthetic grounds", whatever that means. I feel safer, knowing she can reach me whenever, and vice versa.

I puzzle for a moment over how to dial without getting blood all over everything, not least the floor, and compromise by holding the phone between the side of my head and my shoulder while I dial with my good hand. The phone rings.

"Hello?" she picks up.

"Hey, it's me."

"Oh, hey my love. What's going on?"

"I, um, cut my hand a little. So I'm not going to be able to work on the table today, the cut's in a bit of an inconvenient place" --technically true-- "and we're out of bandages" --this is also true-- "so I'm just going to go et it fixed up" --also true. "You need anything, call me cell, okay?"

"Okay. You going to be all right?"

I glance at the deep, gash in my right hand, which is still oozing blood, despite the pressure I had been applying. "Um, yes. It's bleeding a bit, but I'll be fine."

"Well, don't bleed on my floor, okay?"

"You think I forgot how much it cost to refinish it last year? I'll not bleed on it for a million dollars. Almost literally."

She laughs. "Okay. See you later, my love."

"See you, love."

I hang up. Now I just have to figure out how to drive with a giant gash in my hand...

Have you ever needed stitches? Have you ever minimized an injury when you're talking to someone? Do you "do" antiques?