Almost lost the finger.
SO, to recap: I’m publishing books this year (Fixer, We Are not Good People) that involve a magic system that requires blood sacrifice, so my main characters (a lot of the characters, actually) are covered in scars. So I thought I’d write a bit about my own scars and invite others to join in (which they have; I’m making videos of some of the responses). Then I’m posting everything with the hashtag #gettheblood, because I am hip and modern and with it.
Last time out, it was the scar on the back of my head, which had not one but three origin stories. This time, it’s the scar on the little finger of my left hand.
THE BURNING QUESTION
Before we go any further – is it pinky or pinkie? I must know before I write the rest of this — aw, too late.
Anyways, I was 18 years old. I could probably stop the story right there and everyone would understand how the rest of it went, except, unbelievably, there was no alcohol involved. There was a very sharp knife, my old friends and former room-mates Ken and Jeof, and a strange game we invented called Stalk with Knife and Leap Out Brandishing Knife. I don’t think I can actually explain the rules to you. I don’t think I could have that night, either. If I recall correctly, the winner of the game got to eat everything the other players had sliced off by accident.
What I can explain is that I was hiding with the knife behind my back, the blade inexplicably held in my other hand, loosely (because I’m smart enough not to grab a blade tightly, despite being stupid enough to grab it at all) and when Jeof walked around a corner I leaped out, shouting something cool (probably SHAZAM! because, what’s cooler than shouting SHAZAM!? Nothing is cooler) and almost cut my pinky off with the knife.
Because, I say to my idiot 18-year old self, THAT’S WHAT FUCKING KNIVES DO, THEY CUT OFF YOUR FINGERS.
I didn’t want to go to the hospital, so we wrapped it up in gauze and I sat around all night bleeding and insisting it was merely a flesh wound. The next day, it was still bleeding and I decided perhaps I was being a bit rash, and not wishing to witness my blackened, rotted finger fall off during final exams, went to the campus medical center where they stitched half my finger back onto me kind of poorly, leaving me with the lovely scar in the photo above. Every time I see it, I am reminded that I was, and remain, kind of stupid about things.
I’m also reminded that I don’t actually use my little fingers when typing, so my life otherwise would have been more or less unaffected. Although like as not it would have been the first of many maimings, right? And I would be just a torso today, using a voice-activated Segway to get around.
So that’s my pinky scar. Got a scar story? Send it on and we’ll make a video or something with it!
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