The Peculiar Girl and a Bloody Mess (edit)

"Stay."

Her mother said.

"Stay here, don't follow."

The voice a high clear bell, distorted through time, calling over an open field of long grass.

A toddler barely able to follow, she stayed. She stayed until she knew it as her name. Then she started to waddle over.

"I said stay." Mother would snap. Stay remembered being told what to do. She learned the difference of her taught name and its meaning. She stayed.

What am I staying away from? She wondered.

Stay was a mystery to herself.

She stayed still when an accident in the kitchen took her left ring finger at 15. She cried out without a sound. Air crept through her tightened throat as she stared, astonished at her finger lying in a pool of blood. Her mind became fuzzy, seeing her finger unconnected to her hand.

It was no longer her finger, but a finger. It paled considerably in seconds. She panicked. Stay had no one to call out for, no one to tell her what to do or how to take care of it. Still scared of the town, she did the only thing she could think of.

Gas stove on high and a metal spoon stuck to the flame, she waited for it to glow orange. She could barely breathe at the sight of the absurd amount of blood dripping down to a puddle at her feet. She turned her mind off. Without hesitation, despite the knot in her stomach, Stay thrust the spoon to the nub of her finger.

A scream seared out of her body, her body convulsed and shrieked with the pain of it. Hot. Stinging. Searing flesh. Doubling over, she dropped the spoon. Tears bubbled up and spilled over, blurring the horrific vision of her hand.

Eyes squeezed shut, she moaned. Terrified at what had happened and what she did. It all transpired in minutes. The only sound left was her subsiding sobs. The smell made her retch: the iron of her blood, the smoldering spoon burning into the rug it bounced onto. Everything was hot and metal.

Stay clutched her hand to her chest, curled on the floor lying in her blood. It cooled and congealed to her side, forming against her, wrapping around her.

Half unconscious and unable to move, Stay started making plans for a pottery piece in place of her finger. Bone white with glossy forget-me-nots. An intricate series of thin leather strips would hold it in place and allow small movements. She would start making it the next day.

© Ash Huntley

1/642 Things to Write About

For Christmas I got a book 642 Things to Write About

One of the many ways I hope to become more active in my writing life. I did my first one yesterday. A very short one, some of them don't require to write much, or give much space. I was thinking about relaying what I wrote in the book, here. I might expand on it. I want to encourage myself to write in all different ways, including this blog. I'm not sure how much repeating something will help me, but I don't know exactly what this blog will entail. So, for now I will do this.

The worst Thanksgiving dish you ever had:

Although not a dish, I remember the worst thanksgiving I ever had.

My Mom was on a medical liquid diet for the holiday, possibly only on her second or third day. It was already rough, only able to eat broth and jello (as if that is not suffering enough), she still cooked each wonderful Thanksgiving dish, set the table and served the family a wonderful meal. 

Though I felt guilty that she could not enjoy the food, and that she had no help from me (or others) in preparing the meal, I did not falter in gorging myself on turkey, yams, mashed potatoes, Lebanese stuffing (of rice, rice noodle, ground beef and pine nuts) and cranberry sauce (I admit to loving the canned stuff). Not to mention the yeast rolls that need to be prepared the night before or the many beverages my family enjoys throughout the day - chocolate milk, orange juice, pop and apple cider. A wonderful day on all accounts, to be quietly and sadly disrupted only by the small sips of broth my Mother was taking while we piled our plates high with her hard work.

A selfless wonderful woman. She only ever gives the family we want instead of asking for any small thing she may prefer for herself. That moment will always stand out as the pinnacle of understanding the kind of person my Mom is, and the kind of person I would strive to be.

--
Ashley