As I cut into the top of the next pumpkin, the knife slips and slices into the meat between my thumb and index finger on my left hand. A slight whimper slips from my lips as the blood gushes from the hanging flesh. Aunt Ella, who is the closest to me gasps and jumps up.
‘Let me see that,’ she says and pulls my hand toward her.
The blood runs down my arm and soaks my pants. I try to pull my hand away and say, ‘I’m fine.’ She knows I’m lying.
‘I think we are going to have to stitch this.’
With that, I jerk my hand away. There’s no way they’ll be stitching me. ‘It’s not that bad,’ I stammer. My heart beats faster and more blood streams from the cut. Aunt Ella gives me a kind smile and I know I’m in trouble, yet when she reaches for my hand again I lean back almost falling out of my chair.
‘What do you think, Daron? Verick, show your father your hand.’
Why do women do that? My mother, grandmother, and aunt will all involve my dad in situations whenever I choose not to do what they want. Dad’s green, watchful eyes burrow into me, but he says nothing. His entire persona tells me to do as I’m asked, however, and the flashback to the other time I needed stitches tells me it will be worth the fight. The skin on my leg tingles as a reminder of the day I fell on a piece of shrapnel while walking to History. There is nothing for the pain and last time the wound kept splitting open. If it wasn’t for the saltwater, a massive infection would have spread.
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