The Writing Machine

Stories by Christian Cloud Abraham

I Hope I Cut Myself

MEMOIR PROJECT ROUGH DRAFT

As the needs of the farm changed, so did my responsibilities. Near the middle of summer the apple harvest began and I spent my mornings in the kitchen slicing basket after basket of apples, prepping them to be ground into applesauce or pressed into cider. At first, it was fun to use a big knife and chop up the apples, but after the first morning, when they asked me to return that afternoon and continue to help slicing apples, it wasn’t as much fun, but I didn’t mind taking one afternoon off to help the kitchen. On the following morning, I worked in the kitchen slicing apples again and I was a asked to work in the afternoon again, and I grudgingly obliged. Then again, I sliced apples the next morning and each apple I sliced, each minute that went by, grew my conviction that no matter how much they begged me, I would refuse to slice apples that afternoon. And sure enough, they asked again. I told them no, but unlike the previous two days, on this day, they asked me in front of my mom. I refused, and they whined about how hard it was that I help them, and how much they needed my help in the kitchen and asked me again if I would come in and slice apples for the afternoon and promised this would be the last afternoon I would have to help. I still refused. They asked if I was sure. I told them yes. Then my mom step in, she asked me nicely to help them again, and I refused again firmly . Then she insisted, and I got angry . I yelled at her and told her that they made me cut apples two afternoons in a row but she still insisted. I told her I had plans this afternoon. She still insisted. I told her I hadn’t skateboarded for three days. She still insisted. I begged her, I pleaded with her, “don’t make me sliced apples one more afternoon!” But she still insisted. And at that point, I looked at her coldly and said in a dark and angry tone, “I hope I cut myself.”

“Be careful what you wish for son,” she said sharply and walked out of the kitchen staring me down as she left.

When I picked up my knife, sat down on the bench, and reached my first apple, I was furious. I reached into the basket, dropped an apple on the cutting board and came down on it with my big kitchen knife—Whack!—splitting it in half with an aggressive hack. I didn’t rotate the apple, I just came down on each half with a fury, slid it into the stainless steel bowl, and reached for the next apple. I cut more and more apples this way, losing myself in my anger. I hated my mom for making me do this again. Summer days were wasting and I had to sit here and cut apples again for applesauce and cider I probably wouldn’t even eat or drink. I didn’t feel like giving anymore. I gave enough. I did my share. This was my play time, and my mom ruined it. Whack! Another apple cut in half. This is bullshit! Whack! Another cut. I should be outside! Whack! Another cut. I hate this place! Whack! Another cut. Fuck you mom! Whack! What happened next happened in the blink of an eye but felt very slow. Instantly I felt a thump below my left index finger and above my thumb and heat ran into my hand. I looked down at my hand and realized I had cut the apple in half, but the apple was still in my hand, the big kitchen knife was still in the apple, and the knife was still in the palm of my hand starting just below my left index finger. Then, I said “Oh shit!” while I quickly put my hand on the leg of my overalls and tried to act like nothing happened. But “Oh shit!” from an 8-year-old has a way of attracting the attention of adults and every head in the room turned my way and when they saw the way I was looking around nervously and that I was holding my hand on my leg, they knew right away I’d cut myself.
“Did you cut yourself?” asked the woman in charge.
“No.”
“Let me see your hand.”
“No.”
“Please let me see it.”
“No.”
“Christian, give me your hand!”
“No!”
So she took me by the elbow and pulled my hand away from my overalls and the blood poured out from a cut going from just under my index finger all the way to the middle of my palm.

Then she panicked

It didn’t hurt though. It really didn’t. But she panicked and pulled me through the length of the kitchen to a huge stainless steel sink and turned on the cold water. I don’t know, I think the bitch was trying to punish me because she turned on the water strong and shoved my hand under the water and when the water plunged down into the cut, it hurt, not just on the skin, but deep into my hand like an ice pick being shoved through the knuckles and I could see the meat pull back and the white of my bone under my finger and the blood gushed out and the skin flapped back and forth under the water and I cried out in agony. I was fine until she shoved my hand under the cold water and I kept thinking about how mad I was at her for sticking my hand under the water, but soon, the pain beat down my anger and slowly I numbed and broke down and felt bad. After what seemed like an hour under the cold water, she pressed a rag to my hand until it stopped bleeding, and then she bandaged up my hand. The cut curled around from the top of my hand below the index finger at the knucle and down at an angle to the middle of my palm, and it went deep. I could see my bone when she pulled the skin back. The blade glanced off the bone and turned downward towards my thumb and lifted an inch of skin off the bone. It was a serious cut and it took several wraps in many directions to cover all of it. After wrapping up my hand, she sent me to find my mom cleaning a shower room on the second floor…

END
© 2006 Christian Cloud Abraham

Posted on August 16, 2006 in
Emotion: Anger, Type: Creative Nonfiction