I hold the story in my hand

My eyes jump from word to word as 

The tangible account transforms into an elusive fantasy

My hand moves to continue the narrative

Suddenly a sharp pain attacks my vulnerable flesh

I cry out in agony in hopes that someone will hear

I dare not to look at the throbbing source else I might faint.

like a raging fernes it begins to burn 

Warm water seems to engulf my eye and blur

my vision and with a blink it runs down my cheek. 

Finally I force myself to look upon the bloody monstrosity

It is worse than I thought.

Unable to walk due to the crippling pain, 

I drag myself over to get help

A kind old maiden bandages the wound

She looks at me with a concerned, yet puzzled face

Perhaps wondering why so much emotion was provoked by the injury  

Perhaps realizing that my threshold of pain is quite shallow  

Yet, In a soft, sincere, voice she says to me,

"Paper cuts are the worst, aren't they?"