The Thumb
written by: Antonia-Mariam Wallraf
And it’s funny, because three years later, I cut off my thumb by accident. It was on your birthday. Well, the thumb tip, really, as deep as about half the nail, not halted by the firmer texture of it, no, through the flesh and through the nail, one exact straight line. It could have been quite impressive to look at, had I not been overtaken by sweat and nausea, and the streams of blood onto the parquet floor, what would the landlord say, and the frantic running around the flat, doubting I’d last, I should really eat something, quick carbs before I faint here all by myself with half my thumb dangling down, in broad daylight, as broad as November gets, and is there anything else that needs to be done before I die, –
turn the oven off, I need to turn the oven –
and then black.
There I lay, not dying.
***
The first thing I noticed was a kind of unfamiliar odour. I was lying in my bed, the hand with the bandage near my face, when I thought I smelled something acidic, almost suppurating. I cleaned and cleaned, to no avail.
It was really when I started to see it that I couldn’t discount it. At first, there were slightly dark blotches on my plasters, appearing to emit moisture. One day, I saw a surprisingly greenish, lichenous pattern shine through from under my plaster, vesiculating with dampness. It didn’t hurt. I might not have cleaned around it enough, I thought. So, I started to wipe what I saw off. It rubbed off well around the plaster, so I repeated the process every time it grew back.
After about a week, I noticed that my thumb began to feel clumped and tight beneath the bandage, until I could hardly sense its push to grow out of the festering, clammy wound dressing. Had it not been my own thumb underneath, it would have almost seemed as though it didn’t belong to my body at all. When I felt my skin transforming and pulsing beneath the bandage, I finally peeled it away, giving in to the thumb’s pounding urge.
Contrary to my expectations, the bandages came off easily, without pain. It must be good to let the wound breathe a little, I thought, as I carefully tore further, along the nail first, since that’s where the fewest nerves lie.
As I slowly uncovered the swollen edges and exposed my entire thumb, I recoiled for a moment. Where the thumb had been, there was now spongy tissue with what appeared to be gills around it. I felt a kind of release as the air sifted through them, as I hadn’t for so long.
Out of reflex, I grabbed some cloths and began to wipe around it, as I had done so many times before when tending to the wound. I felt the rim that separated the finger from the wound pulsing, as if responding to my scrubbing, so I wiped harder still. I kept going until the moist, rotting flesh of the tip grew warm, its smell drifting around me in a dizzying haze.
With all the strength of my right hand, I scrubbed until that movement became part of me, until I wondered what I had ever done before I cared for this thumb …
Finally, pore by pore, the hollow shell that had once been mine began to fall off.
Laying on my floor, you looked at me, in your greying greenness, and despite the exceptionality of the case, I was glad to see you again.
