I was not exactly sure for how long did I pass out. There were many moments when I thought I had regained consciousness, but every time I found myself in prone position, that cold dusty floor of my parlor kissing my cheek, its dust clogging my nostrils. Every time I felt a burden on my lower back, which I tried to shake off unavailingly. Whenever I squinted, the bitch was there, resting on my back, moving the scalpel effortlessly, and I would pass out again. This happened for quite a long time, so long that I found these occasional wakings as irritants in my blissful nightmare. In fact when I finally woke up, I wished that I faint again. When no unconsciousness greeted me for a long time, I decided to take stock of the situation.
The room I was lying in was full of boxes, with barely enough space in the aisle to accommodate me. I reckoned that she must have dragged me to supply room; no difficult feat; I hardly weighed 120 lbs. In the clock six hours had passed, although I wasn't sure whether it was same day or another, and my back felt as if someone took a red hot brand and instead of burning a spot, rubbed it all over. But in that bedlam, the thing I remembered most clearly was the blood. The floor of my place was crooked, so most of the blood had escaped the supply room and settled towards the studio wall. The fact that I was still alive meant that blood loss had not been substantial, but the way it had spread on the floor seemed to suggest otherwise. A fresh wave of nausea swept me over, this one not for the loss of blood, but its sight. Even more repulsive were her impudent footprints jutting out in coagulated blood. The studio wall towards which blood had spread displayed my designs. It seemed that when the bitch got tired of slashing me, she took a break and decided to give my designs a closer look.
That was what drew the final straw. I had had enough of being treated like a half dead animal. Spurred by my own helplessness or some subconscious defiance for her, I prised myself up too quickly, but regretted the decision immediately. It felt like I had been slammed Back first onto a pile of discarded syringes. Gritting my teeth, I took some staggering steps towards a door frame that connected my supply room to the studio. After an eternity and a half; when my body stopped shaking, I dragged myself to the studio mirror to check how deeply the bitch had chiseled my back.
What greeted me in the mirror were not the zig-zag random cuts slashed across my back, but a well formed shape. She had carved a spider like creature on my back, and it seemed that it was not a hush hush job. She took her sweet little time to first draw an outline, a significantly deep one. The skin is much tougher than what people think it is. Wade through 1.5mm of epidermis and you get a 3mm layer of dermis, wade a bit further and you get that much derided fat. Most lacerations barely graze the dermis. The deep ones can reach up to fat cells and need a stitch later, but they too stop bleeding after a hour or so, cut through that precious precious little layer of yellow fat, and the wound will keep bleeding till a day or so, and if you don't die of blood loss, you will probably die of infection. Apparently that was the layer she had played with, and that was the day I realized that being skinny wasn't probably such a good thing.
How she made that shape with a scalpel still eludes me (light saber seems more plausible choice), but even in all that bloodiness, the shape retained its distinctiveness. The shape that somehow reminded me spiderman's logo had its head starting on my nape, and some eight legs coming out of its bloated body. A couple of tentacles were touching my shoulder blades, next two touching the armpits, another couple on the opposite side of my waist and last two touching the base of my spine.
Rest of the work was ungainly, she sucked badly at filling her outline, there were shades of red and blue inside her spider, and a bunch of black clots of dry blood every here and there. Still poorer was her attempt to stitch the wound. Cutting was hard, stitching it back was even harder. The wound was full of rudimentary half done stitches, some of them hardly a milimeter apart and some separated by inches. Ham-fisted retards could have done a better job. All jokes into the gutter, I had a problem to take care of and time was little, the more I waited, the more tired I grew, and if I gave into the temptation of resting there, I would have never made out alive.
The room I was lying in was full of boxes, with barely enough space in the aisle to accommodate me. I reckoned that she must have dragged me to supply room; no difficult feat; I hardly weighed 120 lbs. In the clock six hours had passed, although I wasn't sure whether it was same day or another, and my back felt as if someone took a red hot brand and instead of burning a spot, rubbed it all over. But in that bedlam, the thing I remembered most clearly was the blood. The floor of my place was crooked, so most of the blood had escaped the supply room and settled towards the studio wall. The fact that I was still alive meant that blood loss had not been substantial, but the way it had spread on the floor seemed to suggest otherwise. A fresh wave of nausea swept me over, this one not for the loss of blood, but its sight. Even more repulsive were her impudent footprints jutting out in coagulated blood. The studio wall towards which blood had spread displayed my designs. It seemed that when the bitch got tired of slashing me, she took a break and decided to give my designs a closer look.
That was what drew the final straw. I had had enough of being treated like a half dead animal. Spurred by my own helplessness or some subconscious defiance for her, I prised myself up too quickly, but regretted the decision immediately. It felt like I had been slammed Back first onto a pile of discarded syringes. Gritting my teeth, I took some staggering steps towards a door frame that connected my supply room to the studio. After an eternity and a half; when my body stopped shaking, I dragged myself to the studio mirror to check how deeply the bitch had chiseled my back.
What greeted me in the mirror were not the zig-zag random cuts slashed across my back, but a well formed shape. She had carved a spider like creature on my back, and it seemed that it was not a hush hush job. She took her sweet little time to first draw an outline, a significantly deep one. The skin is much tougher than what people think it is. Wade through 1.5mm of epidermis and you get a 3mm layer of dermis, wade a bit further and you get that much derided fat. Most lacerations barely graze the dermis. The deep ones can reach up to fat cells and need a stitch later, but they too stop bleeding after a hour or so, cut through that precious precious little layer of yellow fat, and the wound will keep bleeding till a day or so, and if you don't die of blood loss, you will probably die of infection. Apparently that was the layer she had played with, and that was the day I realized that being skinny wasn't probably such a good thing.
How she made that shape with a scalpel still eludes me (light saber seems more plausible choice), but even in all that bloodiness, the shape retained its distinctiveness. The shape that somehow reminded me spiderman's logo had its head starting on my nape, and some eight legs coming out of its bloated body. A couple of tentacles were touching my shoulder blades, next two touching the armpits, another couple on the opposite side of my waist and last two touching the base of my spine.
Rest of the work was ungainly, she sucked badly at filling her outline, there were shades of red and blue inside her spider, and a bunch of black clots of dry blood every here and there. Still poorer was her attempt to stitch the wound. Cutting was hard, stitching it back was even harder. The wound was full of rudimentary half done stitches, some of them hardly a milimeter apart and some separated by inches. Ham-fisted retards could have done a better job. All jokes into the gutter, I had a problem to take care of and time was little, the more I waited, the more tired I grew, and if I gave into the temptation of resting there, I would have never made out alive.
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