Fiction: Fingers

His thumb didn’t come off as cleanly as he had hoped. When he drove the hatchet into it, the bone just smashed. The hatchet could have been a little sharper. Took a few more swings to finally disconnect the thumb from his hand.

Blood began to pool on the table beside his mangled hand. He waited for the pain to surge through the stub where his thumb used to be, but it never came. Deep red blood trickled out.

That was the big one, he figured, might as well keep going. He placed his bloody hand flat on the table once again. He used his other hand to spread his index finger away from the others. One at the time.

He rested the hatchet blade just over the big knuckle of his finger, practicing where the blow would land. There would probably have to be a few swings on this one as well.

He drove the hatchet into his finger. The bone snapped and cracked. Again he swung it. And again. He stopped once the hatchet lodged itself in the table in-between his hand and severed finger.

He raised his three-fingered hand closer to his face. Blood ran down his arm as he examined himself. He tried to move the muscles and bone that used to be his fingers, but his palm just twitched. There was still no pain. What the hell? he thought.

He brushed away his former digits and hacked away at his middle finger. Then the ring finger. It was getting pretty easy at this point.

His hand looked pretty silly. Didn’t even look like a hand. Just one tiny pinky finger on a ball of mangled flesh and bone. There was no pain, so he just shrugged and raised the hatchet to finish the job.

When the blade connected with his last finger, the pain finally erupted. He screamed aloud and stumbled backward, dropping the hatchet and grasping his final finger. His teeth were clenched and eyes squeezed shut, trying to bare the pain. It slowly turned into an ache.

He looked at his final finger. The hatchet had sliced through the skin, but bounced off the bone.

He put his finger back on the table and picked the hatchet up. He was trembling now. The pain had shaken him, but he was determined.

The blade bounced off again, but he was ready for the pain this time. Each time he swung the pain intensified, but his finger wouldn’t crack. He wondered if he was growing weak. There was a lot of blood on the table. It was hard to keep either of his hands steady.

He swung and swung.

Eventually the hatchet dropped from his hand. Okay, he said to himself, okay. He took his mutilated hand and its one good finger and cradled it with the opposite arm.

He sat down and let out a little laugh. He was smiling.