Blood

Bentley - the cat - scratched my wrist so badly it started bleeding. I guess it was an accident.
I picked him up a little bit too quickly and he freaked out and slit my wrist. I had to put a tissue on it and apply pressure and elevate my hand and everything. That's when the appliances guys rang the doorbell to come in and install our new fridge.

I opened the door with blood dripping down my forearm. "Kitchen's right there" I said, pointing with a bloody wrist to our little hallway that's actually a kitchen. The men stepped around me, sort of awkwardly, and started working. I continued to wrap my wrist with a dressing and a gauze bandage. "Let me know if you need any help" I told the guys who didn't respond.

That's when I realized - This totally looks like a botched suicide attempt. Like some stupid teenager in need of attention, not really trying to end her life, but just in need of the scar and the bandage, the attention, the pity, the mystery. These guys must not think I'm a suicidal teenager. "You know I'm married you know" I said trying to seem like someone in her thirties, "my husband actually had to take that door frame off for us to get the fridge out, you know, so that you guys could move the new one in also..." No response from the guys.

I had to go into work looking like this as well. But to be honest, it actually feels kind of cool to have my wrist all bandaged up. People stared at me curiously on the subway. And at work, my patients were concerned and asked me questions about it, all that stuff, attention. Of course I told my patients that the cat did it, not me. But the people on the subway, they will never know.