A cut above all others

"the knife fell from her hand" prompt

"Ow"! Sunlight arced in a flash, paralleling the movement of the silver knife as it sliced sharply through the flesh of her left thumb. Not just any piece of her thumb, of course, but the most tender morself between it and her idex finger. Blood, thick and viscous, flowed from the deep cut. The knife fell from her hand, the salad over before it was truly began. It clattered against the wood floor, bright drops of blood shiny against the dark  planks.

She grabbed the dish towel and pressed it tightly against the wound. In an instant, blood saturated that section of the towel and she slid it over to use a cleaner area. As it too, became slick with blood, the first beginnings of alarm began to trigger. She glanced towards the chair where she usually hung her purse, cellphone perched neatly in the outside pocket. No purse, no cellphone. "Well, where the hell could i have left it?" she exclaimed, eyes searching wildly through the kitchen, examining its expensive mahogany cabinets and stainless steel appliances. No purse in sight, although a big, black leather bag should be hard to hide.

With the blood-soaked towel clutched to her hand, she lurched into the living room, damning the two vodka cocktails she had downed before thinking to throw some food in her stomach after them, trying to mitigate the effects of the alcohol. Normally an efficient celery dicer, her coordination had been impaired just enough  to throw off her concentration. She continued the search for her purse and the help that was only a phone call away. "IF i could find the damn cell phone!" she yelled.

She sank into one of the matching leather chairs and tried to think. "Where did you leave it, Helen?" she wondered out loud. "Did you maybe leave it laying by the front door?" She leaned her head onto her good right hand, "And why am i so fuzzy?" she muttered. Sighing, she tried to think back on earlier that afternoon.

Everything had been fine on the ride up from the city. The air here was always clean and smelled of the sea so she had driven with the windows open, as usual. Stopping at the market to pick up some salad fixings and fresh salmon, she had said hi to some of the nosy old women who were forever wondering why she didn't have a good man, and headed to the beach house for wine and dinner. In that order.

She continued to dissect her afternoon. "Let's see, i put away my bath things and ....."
She stopped, her heart racing. Had she actually taken her sleep medication or did she just think she did? Shit. She had to go check the bottle; it was the only way to tell. She always knew exactly how many pills she had; it was part of being OCD, although that didn't extent to actually TAKING her pills. Just counting them.