Narrative Essay: Scrape Or Scrape

Scrape..scrape..scrape went the blade, glimmering in the gentle summer sun. The leaves danced with an air of grace in the soothing mountain breeze. Little tears of sweat dripped gingerly onto the soft bark, flowing down the length of the leaf to the damp, golden brown earth below. The wood curled back as it peeled, forming a slight spiral. Voices sounded faintly all around, highlighting the silences surrounding them and adding to the peace and serenity of the campsite. The sound of other knives, cutting, scraping, hacking as the labourers wielding them worked to refine their pieces of wood. The air was wet from the dawn drizzle before, and felt cool with each leisurely breath. A thick layer of trees formed a bulwark, shielding me from the strong

After a short while, the stick began to get hard and tougher to chop than before. Up until now, I had been cutting away from myself, down. Now I proceeded to cut upwards to release the tension in the centre. The wood cut smoother and the jaggedy parts protruding out in the centre started to thin at the base. At last, the extra protrusion was thin enough. In just one swift stroke of the blade, I would have it off. I made the blow and the short segment of wood jumped off and hurtled to the ground below. But the blade continued. I winced with pain as it found it’s mark. Fleetingly, I pulled the blade out of my hand. Then, red. Only red. The thin, cardinal liquid continued to percolate from within me. Faster, in larger quantity. It cascaded outwards, shrouding my hand from the air itself. Flowing down my arm, leaping to the now maroon earth

“Oh my god!” He laid me down on the ground. After that I could only hear faint shouts and it was all I could do to keep my eyes open. My head was swimming like crazy and it seemed all my senses were failing. “Bring the bandages and the first aid kit!”, I heard a distant call. But even through my lack of vision I could see that the call came from a distance of no more than 2 feet of my face. “Keep your eyes open”, “it’s just a little cut” I heard. A sting and a splash indicated the washing of my hand to clean the blood. Then a pang of pain and the soft dab of cotton. My finger tightened as a I felt cloth being tied around it. As I lifted my hand to try and look at the damage, all I could see was fabric that seemed almost dyed in crimson. This was quickly replaced by a new bandage and by now the bleeding had fortunately