Flesh-eating Granite

She drops onto the crashpad at eleven after midnight, seeking sleep after a brutal day of bouldering. Anything to bring a new tomorrow; a new day; new skin. All the built up fatigue, all the cruel exhaustion has built up over the eight-hour session at Tramway and now crashes in upon her body in manifold waves. First the sore muscles then the bruised fingers begin banging on the door to her brain; and when it doesn’t open, they slip notes to her sub consciousness to pass on later.

One of them reads: “Don’t ever do that again. Sincerely, Your Right Hand.”

Formal complaints file in.
All she can see are those little post-it notes.
Her knuckles protest loudly as she adjusts her pillow.
Her legs feel heavy, just like her head.
The tip of her right pointer finger throbs painfully where a chunk is missing.
Her shoulders and knees hurt.
Her left wrist is tweaked.
Blisters on her toes.
Knots in her back.
Her neck aches.

And Crash is happy.