Dolores Gutierrez idly touched the small, hard ridge of skin on her smooth, tanned chest. It was just above and a little to the left of her right breast. Inside the small pocket of scar tissue was a wooden splinter. At first, there had been some concern about infection, but the wound had healed over quickly and completely. Her doctor had told her that, sooner or later, the little piece of foreign matter would work itself out on its own. It never had.

There was never any question of having it removed. Certain experiences marked you forever and it was foolish to think that anything could erase it.

Once, almost a decade ago, something had happened to Dolores Gutierrez.

Author's Note:
The Splinter is a work of fiction dealing with adult subject matter, including religion, self-immolation and sexual themes. If you feel that this sort of subject matter might offend you, or if you are not of legal age in your jurisdiction, do not read further.

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