The sound coming from the creosote-stained building of wood hidden in the mass of trees was one of pain and horror, a tortured wail that seeped out of the cracks between the wooden slats making up the walls.
Inside, the tools of the trade laid on the counter, one particular one bloody from use. The long metal shaft bore a slanted tip crimson with shed blood, the unfortunate on the receiving end clutching at her hand as the wound leaked.
Throwing her body against the door, she stumbled out and down the rough, dirt path towards the break in the copse, calling to the house in the distance with the lights on.
“Help!” She yelled as she left the shed behind her, along with a number of choice swear words. When the occupants made themselves visible, she hurried towards them as she cried “I stabbed my hand with the damn screwdriver!
She joined the ranks of the bank holiday weekend DIY casualties in the annuls of incident reports at the local A&E.