My finger is red raw, bleeding. Distracting, debilitating.
The index finger, on my left hand.
The nail is torn, blood oozing from the tip and running in a slow, painful rivulet. A stinging, insolent, rude and raw pain. I want to peel the torn nail off slowly, feel the parting of flesh, the slicing agony. Need that. Want it.
My fist clenches. Fingers dig into the splintered wooden table top, slivers of fresh twisted wood piercing flesh, sliding under my nails.
I shift uneasily. That empty, roiling feeling inside me making me anxious, again. I can not sit still. Can not focus.





