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By @ColorfulAlpaca

The Cut

It’s six when I wake up, early for a Friday. Somehow I’m feeling awake, which is an unusual feeling. I grab my hairbrush and clothes.

“Bye mom,” I say closing the car door. Everyone is excited and bouncy. “Juniper, over here!” my best friend, Mike calls. “Oh, hey,” I say back as the bell rings, telling everyone they have three minutes to get to class. “Don’t you think robots are like really cool?” he asks. “I guess so? That was really random,” I answer waving as he heads the other way to his class. I stop by my locker to put my lunchbox in it, and shut it. I speed walk to math. The bell rings before I sit down. Phew, not late. “Juniper?” my math teacher says crossing her arms. “Am I in trouble?” I ask, panicking. It’s not that big of a deal to get in trouble, but I don’t know what I did. She smiles. “No,” her smile fades. “Unless you didn’t do your homework.” I pretend to freak out. “We had homework!?” I exclaim handing it to her. “Suck up,” My friend, Mariana says sitting down behind me in her assigned seat. “Just trying to pass, Marinara.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m not pasta sauce, Jupiter.” I snort ignoring her nickname for me, and turn around.

Finally! Fifth period: lunch! “Ew.” Mike sits down across from me holding his tray. “Just bring lunch,” I say, eyeing his questionable mashed potatoes. “Seriously? Eat my moms poisonous sandwiches?” I smile and shake my head. “They can’t be that bad,” I reply handing him my bag of chips. “Thanks.” He looks at the expiration date on his milk. “In two weeks, new record!” He jokes. “The food here isn’t actually that bad, I just really hate mashed potatoes.” I roll my eyes at him and snort. “But you like every other form of potato.” He nods and shrugs me off.

Once I get home I run into my kitchen to cut the watermelon sitting in the fridge. Most parents would never allow their kid to cut a watermelon, but my mom says “If you accidentally cut your finger off, you’ll learn to be more cautious.” I’ve done it before – cut watermelon, not my finger. Today, the knife decides to switch things up. “OW!” I yell dropping the knife. My mom runs into the kitchen. “Okay, we’re going to the hospital,” my mom says looking at my red arm. I don’t know how she’s so calm. She hands me ice and a towel. “In the car, don’t bleed on my seats,” She says sarcastically. “I’ll get right on that,” I reply choking back tears. “Does it hurt?” She asks, as I grab my phone from the counter and go outside. “Nope, I’m fine. Cutting yourself with a really sharp knife really doesn’t phase anyone. Yes it hurts!” Mom grimaces as she starts the car. I lift the red soggy towel and look at my arm. Just a pool of blood, sticky and drying.


“OK, come here, we’ll get your arm fixed as soon as we can,” a nurse says leading me into a small room with the faint scent of cleaning alcohol stuff I hate. My mom follows and the rest of the night it’s a blur of needles, nurses, and questions.

“How did this happen?”

“Are you allowed to cut watermelon?”

“Were you supervised?”

“What time did this happen?”

“I cut myself.”



“Around three.”

And finally, they check it once more, before bandaging it and stitching it. As they do so, I catch a glimpse of blue red and green… wires? No, that’s impossible. Right?

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