I've heard of these moments, but had never experienced one.
Fandom just saved my life. I shit you not.
I was walking down the stairs in the dark, right? Admittedly not the brightest idea, but I'm admittedly not the brightest person, so trundle blindly down smoothly compressed carpet did I, with socks on. And what did I happen to do but lose my footing, slip, and crack my forehead against the very sharp edge of the half wall alongside the staircase. I grabbed the wall and hung on, bent over, loudly and repeatedly declaring my idiocy to the house at large in somewhat colorful language for several seconds until I became aware of the fact that there was a small but steady river of blood pouring down from my hairline. It was trailing all over my forehead, dribbling down onto my eyelids and dripping onto my glasses, and it was scary as hell because dude, it was a lot of blood. I mean, there were creeks of blood forming on my face. And then it was all over my hands, because I had whipped my glasses off and pressed my hands to my face for no particular reason other than oh my god I am bleeding buckets I am going to die. And it was getting on my white shirt and on the white wall and the white carpet-- I actually have to go clean that Wilson-style handprint off the wall when I'm done typing this; it looks like someone dragged an attempted escapee from the local asylum back down from the fence-- and it was just so many levels of not fun.
But!
I knew, because-- here it comes-- I read in a fanfic that wounds on the forehead bleed a lot, and it doesn't necessarily mean you're going to die. It might be just a small cut. And what did this knowledge do? It prevented me from panicking, flailing wildly, overbalancing, and toppling backward down the stairs in a manner that would cause me to acquire a head wound significantly more fatal than the one I was currently sporting. So I stood and took deep breaths for a moment before going back upstairs, turning a freaking light on, cleaning myself up, locating a new shirt, and applying a band-aid to the gash on my forehead.
It's actually a pretty long slice, maybe about an inch, but not deep. I am most emphatically not going to die. Woot. But yeah, it's right up on the hairline, and my bangs cover it. Yay!
Anyway, that is the story of how a staircase launched a violent attack upon my person and fanfiction prevented my death.
I'm gonna go scrub that handprint of the wall now. And get some aspirin, because owww.
I was walking down the stairs in the dark, right? Admittedly not the brightest idea, but I'm admittedly not the brightest person, so trundle blindly down smoothly compressed carpet did I, with socks on. And what did I happen to do but lose my footing, slip, and crack my forehead against the very sharp edge of the half wall alongside the staircase. I grabbed the wall and hung on, bent over, loudly and repeatedly declaring my idiocy to the house at large in somewhat colorful language for several seconds until I became aware of the fact that there was a small but steady river of blood pouring down from my hairline. It was trailing all over my forehead, dribbling down onto my eyelids and dripping onto my glasses, and it was scary as hell because dude, it was a lot of blood. I mean, there were creeks of blood forming on my face. And then it was all over my hands, because I had whipped my glasses off and pressed my hands to my face for no particular reason other than oh my god I am bleeding buckets I am going to die. And it was getting on my white shirt and on the white wall and the white carpet-- I actually have to go clean that Wilson-style handprint off the wall when I'm done typing this; it looks like someone dragged an attempted escapee from the local asylum back down from the fence-- and it was just so many levels of not fun.
But!
I knew, because-- here it comes-- I read in a fanfic that wounds on the forehead bleed a lot, and it doesn't necessarily mean you're going to die. It might be just a small cut. And what did this knowledge do? It prevented me from panicking, flailing wildly, overbalancing, and toppling backward down the stairs in a manner that would cause me to acquire a head wound significantly more fatal than the one I was currently sporting. So I stood and took deep breaths for a moment before going back upstairs, turning a freaking light on, cleaning myself up, locating a new shirt, and applying a band-aid to the gash on my forehead.
It's actually a pretty long slice, maybe about an inch, but not deep. I am most emphatically not going to die. Woot. But yeah, it's right up on the hairline, and my bangs cover it. Yay!
Anyway, that is the story of how a staircase launched a violent attack upon my person and fanfiction prevented my death.
I'm gonna go scrub that handprint of the wall now. And get some aspirin, because owww.