I got as splinter yesterday on the finger I use to type 97 percent of my letters. Took it out. Or so I thought. But it's still in there. I dug and dug, with tweezers and nail clippers alike, creating an open-pit mine with my medieval surgery.
But I sense it's still in there somewhere, concealed yet throbbing, like Edgar Allen Poe's telltale heart, only in splinter form. At least the pain makes it feel as though it is. It's either the splinter that or the gaping, likely infected wound causing the hurt.