Bite my fingers (Short Story)

“Ah, It’s raining.”

—---------------------------------------------------

“Ouch, I nicked my finger.”

The red wine fluid slowly drips down my pinky finger, following the trail of the vein in my arm – A slow reminder of the beat of my soul. The rough texture of my hand, a quiet contrast to the gentle stream.

I grabbed a napkin and gently patted the wound.

…sigh

The bleeding has stopped, a subtle finality. My body was strangely weak somehow, even with a few cute wounds. 

Though, it was never about the wound.

My hand planted deep onto the counter, wondering onto senseless thoughts. I have yet to know what reason I may have had to be here. Then, a sudden pop of a little sense in me appeared.

Oh right, I’ll have to cook for my mom. How can I forget?

…

I proceed  to cook fried chicken, a large portion for two people. She must be hungry. With delicateness, I bring what's best in my hand and these souls for the people I care for. It was…never a debate to think so.

My orbs of life suddenly catch a glimpse of light outside the window.

…It’s raining. Heavily.

Something in the droplet, the thunder, the music, feels familiar.

Like nostalgic. 

My eyes turned to gaze onto the nicked that bit me earlier – as if it became the source of the familiarity that my mind was wondering onto the answer. Suddenly, the wound became a scar. What a strange phenomena.

Once again, my hand planted deep onto the counter –  wondering onto what reason I may have had to be here.

“…I hope you have bitten my finger again.”