The history of my right hand

Scars tell stories. Be it a cool story about that one time when you were out-of-your-face drunk and decided to ride a children’s scooter down a gigantic hill, or something completely mundane. They can tell people whether you’ve had any animal encounters recently and also whether you are any good in the kitchen. Some are faint and shiny others are raised and very eye-catching. People love telling the history of the badges of honour they’ve earned throughout their lives.

My right hand is my dominant hand and thus has the most flesh wounds. The most noticeable of my scars is close to the middle of the back of my hand. It’s the one that the backstory that I’m the least proud of. It was the only time I had to go to A&E. I was playing food-Tetris in the fridge and a sardine can decided to jump out and attack me. Such a clever girl. It’s currently still healing properly and so there’s a bit of a groove in my hand.

The scars with the most memorable story is the two sat close together between my middle finger and my ring finger. My first time that I can remember going ice skating, I fell flat on my face in traditional fashion. I remembered my rookie advice and landed with my hands curled up into little balls so I wouldn’t have my fingers sliced off like in the horror stories they tell every newbie. Noticing I’d fallen, my friend skated over to make sure I was ok. Unfortunately, he was also a beginner and didn’t know how to stop yet. Next thing I know, my hand is bleeding and I’m being lead off the ice. The good news is this got me two weeks of school where I didn’t have to write anything and has allowed me to do a rather nice Vulcan salute.

My favourite scar doesn’t have much of a backstory but does have some fond memories linked to it. It’s about half an inch long and located just underneath the lower half of my thumb. This scar is a love-scratch from one of our old pet rats. They were technically both my brother’s but the albino, Salt, was always more like mine, as my brother preferred the rather fat and rather dense black and white one, Pepper.

The majority of the other scars that I have accumulated on my poor abused right hand are courtesy of my generically temperamental cat, Tig. And that is the entire history of my scars, the trophies that I’ve gained with pride. Mostly.


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