MidReal Story
Artistic Betrayal: A Hand's Secret
Scenario: My hand is bleeding
Create my version of this story
I’m an artist.
And I was desperate.
I’d dropped the razor blade and was staring at my left hand in shock.
Blood dripped from my fingertips and pooled on the floor.
I’d heard that sometimes the pain of self-harm could be a helpful distraction if you were feeling emotionally overwhelmed.
And, well, I was.
But I hadn’t planned for it to go this far.
I hadn’t even realized I was capable of doing something so intense, so .
I looked around my studio, my heart racing in a way that had nothing to do with the sight of my own blood.
It was just a little blood.
And okay, maybe more than a little blood.
I’d never been one to shy away from a graphic scene in a movie or show, but seeing it in real life was enough to make me feel lightheaded.
Slowly, I raised my hand and glanced at the wall where I’d been working.
A crisp white sheet of paper had been taped to the wall, and my blood dripped down it in erratic patterns and lines.
It was beautiful.
The sight of my blood against that bright white paper made something inside me shift and unclench, like a fist being released from around my heart.
The block I’d been battling against for months seemed to disappear in an instant, washed away by the sight of that dark red paint.
It had always felt like something was missing from my art lately, but .
I blinked and focused on the pain in my hand instead of staring at the wall like a maniac.
What was I doing?
I’d come into my studio with no real plan or intention beyond getting some work done, and now .
Now, I couldn’t look away from that wall.
It wasn’t just that all my canvases were unfinished or that the tubes of paint crowding every surface were mostly empty or dried up—it was .
The artwork on that wall behind me—the one that had just made me feel so alive—was different from everything else around me.
It was beautiful, but not because it was “good.” It was beautiful because it felt like .
My art used to be passionate and wild, but it hadn’t been that way for a long time.
I didn’t know how to get back to that place, but I wanted to.
I wanted it so much.
And maybe .
Maybe if I could make more pieces like this one, I’d find my way back.
Something shifted in my stomach, and I realized I wasn’t just lightheaded—I felt sick.
The dizziness from seeing so much blood was catching up with me, and now that I wasn’t so focused on what I was doing, the pain in my hand felt sharper.
I stumbled over to the sink and rinsed off as much blood as I could before wrapping a clean towel around my hand and pressing down on the wound.
The bleeding wasn’t slowing.
Was this enough blood?
I wasn’t sure.
But, well, I’d never hurt myself like this before—I didn’t really know what I was doing—so maybe it would be better if I stopped now before .
The bathroom door banged open, and Mark appeared in the doorway.
