The red message

  

   She had been awake for a while; but her eyes refused to open. She enjoyed the light beyond her eyes and the darkness behind them. She was drowsy, and pleasantly disoriented. Like the times when you are not sure which side of the bed your head is on. She could lie there forever. But there was a nasty throbbing somewhere. Her hand... her fingers... yes, her index finger of her right hand.
   She opened her eyes, irritated. There was a deepish cut; now clotted. The pillow had patterns of blood on it. Ugly caked red, but pretty bloody designs. The blood had gotten on her hair. It was matted in places. She'd have to shower & put a tape on her finger. She had no recollection of how and where she had got cut. All she cared about was her hair; and oh, the designs. Like mysterious divinations.
    She dragged herself out of the bed, one leaden step at a time and stood in front of the mirror, groggy yet intensely aware... There were messages she had to hear, to interpret. 'I wish I could cut and frame the blood-stained sheet,' she thought. The thought didn't leave her all day, as she went about her work, carrying her wounded finger like a curious trophy. She got home, carefully cut out the section of the pillow case and got it framed. She hung the frame on the wall opposite her fireplace. She would sit on her rocking chair and look at it. The designs would tell a story some day.

(With inputs from Satish Lakshman @tishman and Nikhil Deshmukh @red_devill22 )