We watch a lot of cop shows. Murders. Forensics. NCIS, Law & Order reruns, CSI, and so many more. Everyday, right in my living room, someone is convicted on blood evidence. That’s why I know how incriminating traces of a victim’s blood can make someone look.
This evening I nicked myself with a paring knife. Not so unusual. I should be more careful. I work too fast. I’m easily distracted by conversation, dogs, ringing phones, whatever is on TV. The result? I slice off fingertips, though I’ve also stabbed myself in other ways. Other places. After which I bleed copiously.
If I didn’t bleed so much, it wouldn’t be as much of a problem … but I bleed like mad.
Ironic because when I go for blood tests, no one can find a vein or get any blood out of me. I have suggested bringing a knife and slicing open a finger for them. They’d have more than enough blood. For some reason, they don’t find my suggestion nearly as funny as I do. I think it’s hilarious.
Today I cut myself slicing onions.
This is twice as painful as any other cut because it hurts when the knife cuts me. And when onion juice gets in the wound, it stings something fierce.
It wasn’t a terrible cut. Just a band-aid sized wound. I should have stuck a band-aid on the finger immediately because it wasn’t a gusher. Merely a dribbler. Not life threatening.
But instead, I finished chopping onions then went to the cupboard, found bandages and stopped the bleeding. There was blood everywhere.
I’ve left a trail of blood with every slice, nick, or stab. My blood is between the tiles, in the drain. In every nook and cranny of the kitchen. Not only in the kitchen. Gory accidents are part of my lifelong battle with packaging … and packages have been opened in every room.
Be honest. Haven’t you ever found yourself stabbing at a blister pack of pills in the middle of the night with whatever pointed object you can find? In the bathroom, it’s usually a tweezers … the only sharp object I can grab without going to another room. Which would wake the dogs. I don’t want to do that.
You know what I mean. It says “press here,” but if you press there, the pill gets crushed and you still have to stab it to get it open.
So that’s how come you can find my blood on keyboards, furniture, medicine cabinet, tweezers. Headboard, night table. Rugs, desk chair. You name it, I’ve bled there.
CSI would have a field day. If anything were to happen and my poor guiltless husband were accused of killing me, they’ll find my blood everywhere. The poor guy would look guilty as hell. So, if the cops come to get Garry, please show them this post. Thanks. I appreciate your coöperation.