Snippet #2
I totally meant to post last night, but I -gladly- got pulled into writing instead!
(Side note: wrote 4050 words last night! I have now reached 30,119!)
So, here is another blip. I really like this one, for some reason. It was a battle between this and two other pieces...maybe they will win someday too. I know it needs editing...but you have asked, so here some is!
The sound of someone washing their hands pulled me from my empty dreams. My father was standing by the sink, scrubbing at his hands vigorously. I could see a stream of red mixing with the water that flushed away down the old sink.
“What happened?” I asked before I could stop myself.
My father jumped at the sound of my voice. I could see his shoulders sag as he let out a heavy sigh. “Just a cut. At work. They said I don’t even need stitches.” I saw him wince in pain as he scrubbed at it again. “Don’t worry.” Still wincing, I watched as my father pulled a small sliver of metal out of the cut on his hand, dropping it to wash away down the sink.
I climbed down from my bunk and crossed over to him. Unrolling some of the rough toilet paper, I waited for him to turn off the water, then handed him the wad. “Thanks,” he muttered, taking it carefully from me and pressing it to the cut. I could see dark red already bleeding through the thick toilet paper.
“You should go to the Infirmary. You need to get that checked again.”
My father stared at his hand, pressing harder against the bleeding. “No, they said I’m fine. Don’t worry Millie.” He looked up at me, forcing a small smile to pass on his face before he winced again in pain.
I watched as he walked past me, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. Unrolling more toilet paper, I brought it to him. He kept his head down, carefully pulling the now blood saturated ball of toilet paper off his hand. Before he could cover it with the new bundle, I was able to catch a glimpse of the wound.
The side of his left hand, right along his thumb, was sliced cleanly open. I could see the bulge of white fat and gleam of bone clearly, all covered in the thick red of flowing blood. It clearly needed stitches.
My father pressed the clean ball of toilet paper to the wound, shamefully handing me the dirty one. Without pausing, I moved over to the toilet and dropped it in. I watched as the red toilet paper soaked up the toilet water, already tearing apart and disintegrating. I hit the flush handle and the red mess disappeared.
“I’m getting a Medic.” I announced.
“Millie, I said that I’m - ”
“I said I’m getting a Medic.”
With that, I stormed out of the cell. The Medic room was just down the walk, positioned to be close for a reason. There were a lot of injuries here. There was even a special clean up crew, assigned to only clean up the blood left from the brawls and self-inflicted wounds that occurred daily.
Banging on the door, I waited. Finally a woman peeked out. I could tell she wasn’t a convict. The scared look on her face, the long wavy hair pulled back into a clean pony tail, the neatly trimmed nails only served to give her away. There was no way she had ever served time.
“My father is injured.”
“Name?” she asked, pulling out a small device that fit into the palm of her hand.
“Alan 942B.”
She typed in the name then waited. The machine was silent a moment, then beeped. “It says he was examined at the site and was deemed fit to return to cell for rest.”
“I can see fat,” I snarled through clenched teeth. “And bone. He won’t stop bleeding. Does that sound ‘fit’ to you?”
The nurse’s eyes widened for a moment at the hiss of my voice. Checking the device again, she added nervously, “And his points amount only allows - ”
“Take it from my points.” As she opened her mouth to protest, I cut her off. “Yes, you can. I am given points as an allowance until I leave. Take the amount you need and fix his damn hand.”
The nurse looked at me a moment, her eyes wide in fear. Then she nodded once, picked up a small bag, and pushed past me. I watched as she made her way toward my block, then I let my body slump heavily against the now closed door.
I felt strangely exhausted. Even though I had just woken up, my eyes were now heavy, my body laboring for breath. I didn’t know what had come over me. The sudden rage that had driven me was something I had never felt before. It scared me a little. Yet, at the same time, I felt oddly powerful. The look the nurse had given me as I hissed my words at her seemed oddly fulfilling. And that feeling, the feeling of enjoying the innocent woman’s fear, was what was scaring me the most.
A clock hung on the wall above the nurse’s station, covered in strips of metal. Looking up at it, I saw that it was almost 1300. I had just enough time to make it to the Parole room. Cursing at myself for pushing time again, I started to run.
(Side note: wrote 4050 words last night! I have now reached 30,119!)
So, here is another blip. I really like this one, for some reason. It was a battle between this and two other pieces...maybe they will win someday too. I know it needs editing...but you have asked, so here some is!
The sound of someone washing their hands pulled me from my empty dreams. My father was standing by the sink, scrubbing at his hands vigorously. I could see a stream of red mixing with the water that flushed away down the old sink.
“What happened?” I asked before I could stop myself.
My father jumped at the sound of my voice. I could see his shoulders sag as he let out a heavy sigh. “Just a cut. At work. They said I don’t even need stitches.” I saw him wince in pain as he scrubbed at it again. “Don’t worry.” Still wincing, I watched as my father pulled a small sliver of metal out of the cut on his hand, dropping it to wash away down the sink.
I climbed down from my bunk and crossed over to him. Unrolling some of the rough toilet paper, I waited for him to turn off the water, then handed him the wad. “Thanks,” he muttered, taking it carefully from me and pressing it to the cut. I could see dark red already bleeding through the thick toilet paper.
“You should go to the Infirmary. You need to get that checked again.”
My father stared at his hand, pressing harder against the bleeding. “No, they said I’m fine. Don’t worry Millie.” He looked up at me, forcing a small smile to pass on his face before he winced again in pain.
I watched as he walked past me, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. Unrolling more toilet paper, I brought it to him. He kept his head down, carefully pulling the now blood saturated ball of toilet paper off his hand. Before he could cover it with the new bundle, I was able to catch a glimpse of the wound.
The side of his left hand, right along his thumb, was sliced cleanly open. I could see the bulge of white fat and gleam of bone clearly, all covered in the thick red of flowing blood. It clearly needed stitches.
My father pressed the clean ball of toilet paper to the wound, shamefully handing me the dirty one. Without pausing, I moved over to the toilet and dropped it in. I watched as the red toilet paper soaked up the toilet water, already tearing apart and disintegrating. I hit the flush handle and the red mess disappeared.
“I’m getting a Medic.” I announced.
“Millie, I said that I’m - ”
“I said I’m getting a Medic.”
With that, I stormed out of the cell. The Medic room was just down the walk, positioned to be close for a reason. There were a lot of injuries here. There was even a special clean up crew, assigned to only clean up the blood left from the brawls and self-inflicted wounds that occurred daily.
Banging on the door, I waited. Finally a woman peeked out. I could tell she wasn’t a convict. The scared look on her face, the long wavy hair pulled back into a clean pony tail, the neatly trimmed nails only served to give her away. There was no way she had ever served time.
“My father is injured.”
“Name?” she asked, pulling out a small device that fit into the palm of her hand.
“Alan 942B.”
She typed in the name then waited. The machine was silent a moment, then beeped. “It says he was examined at the site and was deemed fit to return to cell for rest.”
“I can see fat,” I snarled through clenched teeth. “And bone. He won’t stop bleeding. Does that sound ‘fit’ to you?”
The nurse’s eyes widened for a moment at the hiss of my voice. Checking the device again, she added nervously, “And his points amount only allows - ”
“Take it from my points.” As she opened her mouth to protest, I cut her off. “Yes, you can. I am given points as an allowance until I leave. Take the amount you need and fix his damn hand.”
The nurse looked at me a moment, her eyes wide in fear. Then she nodded once, picked up a small bag, and pushed past me. I watched as she made her way toward my block, then I let my body slump heavily against the now closed door.
I felt strangely exhausted. Even though I had just woken up, my eyes were now heavy, my body laboring for breath. I didn’t know what had come over me. The sudden rage that had driven me was something I had never felt before. It scared me a little. Yet, at the same time, I felt oddly powerful. The look the nurse had given me as I hissed my words at her seemed oddly fulfilling. And that feeling, the feeling of enjoying the innocent woman’s fear, was what was scaring me the most.
A clock hung on the wall above the nurse’s station, covered in strips of metal. Looking up at it, I saw that it was almost 1300. I had just enough time to make it to the Parole room. Cursing at myself for pushing time again, I started to run.
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