writing snippet - be careful with that knife

A careless moment, and the blade scraped crossways against the edge of my hand. Not enough to wound, but the metal sheared off the topmost layers of skin and the spot ignited into a dull sting as nascent flesh was exposed for the first time. The sight fascinated me; there was something about the neat, quarter inch long furrow in the side of my hand (barely deep enough to see, unless you could already feel it) that drew my rapt attention. The skin on my hand was normally level, and unmarred save occasional stains of dirt or ink. Recovered from the shock, a single slow drop of blood began to well up from the scrape.
I turned on the tap and help my hand underneath. I braced at the cold water running over my hand and washing away the trace blood, and again as the soft touch of a towel wasn't quite soft enough.
A little scrape—not even a proper cut—and I wanted to wrap my hand, protect it until it was completely healed. It's funny to think how vulnerable we feel when the things we keep inside don't stay in, or the things we keep on the outside don't stay out. Even if it's just the littlest thing.