Scars

Writing prompt from Mama Kat's.


I found another fun little writing prompt exercise through InkPaperPen. Click the link above to check it out. Today: "Tell us about that scar."


Oh, so many to choose from.


As I have stated before, I am a klutz. This has therefore resulted in many, many scars across my body. Today, I will tell you about the two times my klutziness has resulted in stitches: once in my face, and once in my finger.


The first occurred when I was about eight years old. At that time, my mother, older brother, and I lived in a tiny apartment in my grandmother's house with a small kitchen, a smaller living room, and an even smaller bathroom. A minuscule bedroom was built for my brother and I to share, while my mom used the living room as hers. 


One afternoon, my brother and I decided to play catch in the backyard. Things were going fine, the natural back-and-forth progression that involves a simple game of catch. Suddenly, my brother threw the ball quite a bit further than I could reach, so I ran for it. This, consequently, made me look up at the hurdling ball in the sky rather than where my feet were landing. My grandmother had apparently just cut down a tree, because that's when I tripped over a stump and landed face-first in a giant pile of sticks, cutting and puncturing my face and neck. With blood streaming down my face and neck, staining my shirt, I screamed and cried, and cried and screamed. Mom snatched a towel to hold to my crimson wounds, most worried about my neck, and we were off to the hospital. The end result? Two stitches in my chin, leaving no visible scar, and bandaids for the rest of the cuts.


The second sewing incident to my body happened my senior year of high school, during second period art class. I can't describe the project very well, but we were required to draw a self-portrait, and cut it out onto linoleum using a tool something like an Exact-o Knife. My first attempt at cutting, I held the project at the top, and slowly but firmly slid the knife across the board. Of course, immediately after, I slipped, and sliced my left index finger open, which instantaneously gushed blood onto the table and my project. I ran to the counter next to my table for paper towels, dripping blood on the floor on the way there. Pressing the towels to my finger did nothing to stop it, and so I asked a friend to tell our teacher that I was running to the nurse.


At the nurse's office, she did her best to patch up the wound, but it wouldn't stop bleeding and suggested I go to the hospital to get stitches. Despite my protesting, she called my mom at home, who of course didn't answer. She called the next two people on my emergency contact list, who of course didn't answer either. Finally the last person on the list, my stepfather's mother, answered and came to pick me up. She drove me home, and it turns out my mom didn't answer simply because she was outside with the dogs and didn't hear the phone ring. 


We drove to the hospital, as regular doctor's offices don't handle stitches. The doctor numbed my finger, sewed up two or three stitches, wrapped up my finger, and we were done. Most kids would have been happy to get out of school for a day, but I was pissed that I had to miss the entire rest of my day due to a stupid cut on my finger. I couldn't just slap a bandaid on it and be done with it?! Jeez.


How did you get some of your scars?