Madvoice Scissor Hands

If you haven't guessed by now I am not to be trusted with sharp objects. Scissors are best kept far, FAR away from me. Preferably in a locked box, six feet underground, covered in lead and encased in a cement mausoleum. However, my youth was misspent, often unsupervised and inclusive of sharp objects. Particularly scissors of the left handed, red handled variety.

I was in grade 3 so I would've been 7 years old (on account of starting school early due to some birth date loopholes). We were doing arts and crafts and were making those snowflakes by folding up paper into triangles and snipping out bits and unfolding it to see our finished masterpieces. Unlike many of the other children who had safety scissors, I had absconded with my mother's left handed, red handled sewing scissors. I'd somehow become rather fond of them even though they had already blooded me once before.

I was merrily snipping away at my latest creation when the classroom bully interrupted me. I politely told him to 'sod off' (though there may have been more sterner expletives uttered to the limits of my then 7yo vocabulary - which was rather extensive despite my age) to which said classroom bully took umbrance to my complex verbiage and decided to give me a rather dead arm by way of his fist.

In the process of me getting a dead arm, my hands slipped and instead of cutting paper, these scissors were out for blood again and cut into my left palm. I'm not sure if they were protesting at the fact that I was using them in my right hand (which was not their intended purpose) or that they had some kind of sick vendetta of trying to even up the score as it was my right arm that they blooded last time.

The pain of the punch to the arm at the time outweighed the pain to the palm of my hand. It wasn't until I noticed the distinct drops of claret dripping on my desk that I became aware that I had in fact broken skin. I inspected my palm to note that there was a U shaped cut just above the fleshy part of the base of my thumb. For my troubles I was sent to the sick bay to receive a rather poorly adhered Band-Aid and told to be more careful. The classroom bully and the scissors ended up victorious in the moment.

Now, some 30 years later, I can still look down at my palm and see the thin white line of the scar where the cut healed in the shape of a perfect U. The bully and scissors naught but a memory etched in skin.