Jacob’s body shook as he gripped the edge of the sink with half a hand, fresh red specks of blood scattering over the yellow-brown stains of the gauze that filled it. He tried to keep his focus on the image in front of him. The tweezers in his left hand moved slowly, the angled points of it sliding in between the torn edges of his skin, skimming side to side as he searched for resistance. Something was there. He knew it was there. He could feel it, see it almost, a lump just above his cheekbone.
Air rushed out from between his clenched teeth as his thumb and forefinger pressed together and slowly tugged. Felt resistance. Pulled. Every action distorted his face as the piece of metal wriggled underneath his grasp, hiding between dark red welts and swollen purple patches. He could feel a shiver coming, running down the back of his neck. His wrist ached. Everything ached.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
It was incredible how something so small could be so disruptive. It was maybe the size of a staple, if that. Small pieces of glistening pink hung to its jagged, silver edges, the faint lines of crimson already running thin between the crooked valleys of it’s anodized surface.
It barely made a sound as he dropped it against the ceramic.
The tweezers joined it with a much more satisfying clatter.Jacob slumped down against the wall, his head leaning forwards as he sat, filling his vision with the off-white, cracked tiles of the floor – And the scattered, useless parts of his first aid kit that were strewn on top of it. An outstretched finger rolled a bottle side to side aimlessly in front of him, his eyes glazing over the text again and again.
((Jacob Rowe continued in Paint It Black))