“Damnit,” she said, looking at the blood rising to the surface of her finger and spread liberally. This was a deep cut, and with little effort of the wound, drops of crimson fell to the table, adding to the other stains. She brought the digit to her lips, tasting the copper warmth as she moved to her type writer. She didn’t have time for the messes, no time for the sticky marks that doused her living space. The story was bubbling within her, was an energy pulsing below the surface, threatening to break her if it wasn’t told. Her finger still producing blood, she released it from her mouth and began tapping at the buttons, leaving slippery splotches behind on the keys.