I Cut My Finger With a ‘Chainsaw’

"I Cut My Finger With a Chainsaw"


I should’ve known better. But knowing better never stopped me from doing dumb things.

It started as a lazy Saturday. My dad had left his old chainsaw in the garage, and I’d always wanted to feel the power of it in my own hands. I wasn’t planning to do anything reckless. Just a few small logs. Just to see what it felt like. Just to test myself.

I didn’t tell anyone.

I stepped outside, barefoot because I’m an idiot, wearing shorts, a sleeveless tee, and no gloves. No protection. Just guts and curiosity.

The chainsaw was heavier than I expected. It coughed and sputtered when I tried to start it, and I almost gave up. But on the third pull, it roared to life. The vibration traveled up my arms, making me feel like some kind of backyard warrior. I placed the log on the stand, leaned in, and let the blade meet the wood.

It sliced like butter. The power thrilled me.

I did one more log. Then another. It was working. I was doing it. I was—

Too comfortable.

That’s when it happened.

The wood slipped.

Instinctively, I reached to steady it—my left hand moving in as the blade kept running. I didn’t process the pain right away. I just heard the shriek of metal against something it shouldn’t have touched.

Then came the sting.

I looked down and saw my index finger bleeding fast—cleanly sliced. Not all the way through. But deep enough. Deep enough that I froze. The blade had grazed the bone, and blood was already pooling into my palm.

I dropped the chainsaw. It fell to the ground, still sputtering, and I stumbled backward.

My breath came in short, sharp gasps. My heart pounded like a drum. I wrapped my hand in the bottom of my shirt and pressed hard. My knees were shaking.

I had no idea what to do.

I should’ve called an ambulance. Or at least my parents. But instead, I walked back inside like a zombie and sat on the kitchen floor.

I cried.

Not just from the pain. But from the shame. From the fear of what I had almost done.

What if it had been worse?

What if I’d lost the whole finger?

What if my little brother had been nearby?

That’s when I heard the front door slam. My mom was home early from work. She found me on the floor, white-faced and shaking. One look at my hand, and she screamed my name.

We rushed to the ER.

I needed seven stitches. The doctor said I was lucky. A little deeper and they might not have been able to save the fingertip. The tendon was intact—barely.

I couldn’t stop replaying it in my mind. The way I reached for the wood. The way I forgot all the warnings. The way I thought I was invincible.

For weeks, I couldn’t use that hand properly. The scar is still there. A small, thin reminder of my mistake. A reminder of how fast things can go wrong when you’re not careful. When you let ego or boredom or foolishness take the wheel.

I told my friends later, and they laughed.

“You cut your finger with a chainsaw?”
“Man, that’s hardcore.”
“You should get a tattoo over the scar.”

But it’s not funny.

It could’ve ended a lot worse.

I still hear the sound of that blade in my dreams sometimes. Still feel that split-second horror of realizing my body is fragile. That power tools don’t care how cool you think you are. That blood doesn’t wait.

But maybe I needed that wake-up call.

Maybe we all get one.

Some people crash their cars. Others overdose. Some lose people. Some get their hearts broken beyond repair.

Me?

I cut my finger with a chainsaw.

And I lived to tell the story.

The story end kay mujay pata lagay kay yahatak story hay.