Write four lines of prose about: the injury.
It's been a rough week for my left hand. On Sunday (or maybe Monday?) I was cooking a chicken curry in coconut milk, so I had opened up a can of coconut milk and left it sitting on the counter with the lid pointed straight up.
Smart, I know.
Shortly afterward, I went to grab something behind it and cut my left thumb and left ring finger on the lid.
That hurt quite a bit. I've had band-aids on both of them since.
This afternoon at the bakery I was mopping up in the back and had fallen behind schedule a little bit, so I was rushing. And being careless again, obviously. There's a long baker's bench, under which they keep four big bins of flour. I have to roll them out in order to sweep and mop under there, but this time I managed to squish my left thumb between the bin and the bottom of the table.
That also hurt quite a bit. As I sit here now, some seven hours later, my thumb is still throbbing. And there's a nice black spot under my thumbnail where the blood dried up.
So my goal for tomorrow's shift is to escape it uninjured.
Or, at the very least, to escape without injuring my left hand any further.
"Ma, I think I'm dying!"
"It's just a tiny little cut, dear - I'm sure you'll be fine."
"Ma, I'm bleeding out here!"
"Oh, just stick a band-aid on it and get back to cleaning your room."