Flash: Missing the Point

It is a small door; only my finger will fit through. All these weeks I’ve been wondering in the woods, alone, maybe it is I who have grown. It’s fitting that my first encounter with civilisation is all out of proportion. I have flicked the door in, and now feel around with my index finger, hoping for some kind of connection.
   ‘Hello, pleased to meet you,’ I whisper.
   I feel a sharp white sting. I take my finger out of the house and hold it up to my eyes. I can just make out a tiny splinter, a fragment, buried under the nail. Five minutes careful picking reveals a minuscule kitchen knife. I suck at the tiny bead of blood the wound has left. Then I stand up and stamp on the little house. I stamp until it is flat.
   ‘You should have made the effort,’ I say ‘we could have been friends.’