Wanna Hear The Story of How I Stabbed My Hand?

I had to write about it for language arts, so here it goes:



No, Away From Yourself, Idiot

By Steph (*******)

I could hear the faint buzzing of the TV in the background, see and feel the warm light from the antler chandelier, igniting the reds of the walls into a deep and soothing crimson.
I think I was reading, but that part of my memory, I can’t seem to recall. Maybe I was watching with my family, huddled up one of the cool leather couches next to my sister. I don’t know.
I heard my Dad’s heavy footsteps. They sent a low tremor in the floor that I could feel under me from my position on the couch. He was carrying a large bowl of ice cream and a box of grahm crackers. And then I heard the dreaded crunching noise that seems to only pester me. Would it kill him to chew with his mouth closed?
I sat for a few minutes and pretended to watch the TV, but am really just focusing and mentally urging Dad to go downstairs, or any other room, suddenly remembering something he had to do. I wished I had Matilda powers. Frustration clouded my judgment. I could just feel it under my skin, my fists clenched.
I get this feeling often. The best I can do is simply leave the room.
So I did.
I ran up the wooden stairs to my room, the cold oak under my bare feet sent shivers up my back with every step.

I had gotten wood carving supplies the day before, and so I pulled the wittling knives out of their case along with the wood block, and set them on my desk. I selected my tool.
My cat got up to see what I was doing. I gave her a few strokes and shoved her off the table. She shook herself out, and I returned to my carving.
Only, hmm. I couldn’t quite seem to cut this one part just right.
I repositioned my left hand, not realizing it was right in the path of the knife, should it go off coarse, and pressed my hardest against the wood.

Then, suddenly, it was in my hand, in the skin between my thumb and forefinger. Blood spurt out of the puncture, forcing the blade out, raining droplets onto my desk and wood block.
I got up and walked quickly into the bathroom, right next door. Adrenaline poured into my system as my head became light.
“Mom!?” I yelled, “I need help!”
I held my hand over the sink, and the red puddle under it began to get bigger. I heard Mom running up the stairs, already knowing what I had done.
She appeared in the wooden doorframe. Her eyes got big, and she quickly folded six sheets of toilet paper into a pad. “Hold it above your head and press this against it, it should stop the bleeding,” she instructed.
Kristen came in with some hydrogen peroxide in hand. “Jeez, Steph,” she said in a heavily sarcastic voice. “Trying to kill yourself?”
I shook my head and suddenly felt really light. “I need to sit down,” I said, realizing how bright the single bulb hanging from the unfinished wall. I felt like puking.
Mom set me down by the wall and held my hand up. “Put your head between your knees and keep your hand elevated.”
I obeyed.
I heard, “It looks pretty deep.”
Then Kristen’s voice, “Your room looks like someone got murdered in there.”
My hand was numb with pain. I felt stinging, and looked up at Kristen gently taking the blood soaked pad off my hand and replacing it with one soaked in hydrogen peroxide. I winced.
“Hey, Steph,” Kristen said, “How about cutting away from yourself next time?”
I gave a half smile, feeling sick from loss of life juice. “Yeah,” I croaked, “No kidding.”