Scar Short Story

Scar Story: I have a small scar next to my chin, and have since I was 5 years old. As best I can recall it was a pretty normal day. Normal in the sense that it was like nearly every other day. I got up, I got dressed, and this day was one of the many where I would go with my mother to pick my father up from work. But on that day I decided I wanted, not just to go, but to bring something with me. When I woke up that morning I never thought the day would end in a hospital room. That I was about to spend the next many years of my life with a scar. No body warned me that day that I would spend the beginning of my Kindergarten year with prickly little stitches on my face— they looked like little spiders’ legs. Or that I was going to spend the next hours of my life in a hospital. A bright white cleaner sented

room. No one told me that before the bright white cleaner sented room, I’d spend hours in a dull cleaner sented waiting room. What I really wish is that someone would have told me that even before the white room, or the dull room, that I was about to permanently stain the cement floor of my garage. Stains that—years later—still have yet to wash away. I had no idea. But maybe if someone had just looked me in the eyes and said, “Hey kid don’t do that!” I wouldn’t have done that. But there wasn't a sign that of my mistake, warning me not to do what I was about to do. So I did it anyways.
So I proceeded with my plan.

I wrapped the glass bowl of watermelon tightly in saran wrap—as tightly as a 5 year old is can. I admired my hand work, having seen my mother do this a thousand times to a thousand bowls. I can’t for the life of me recall if she was in the room then. I just knew she was when I would come rushing back in a few minutes later. She'd be staring at me through the doorway pretty soon in shock, as blood began to stain my clothes. I didn't know that then though. So with the bowl in tow I stepped into the garage destination set in my mind. The car. I can't quite recall what I had planned for the watermelon, And looking back it wasn’t anything important so I really didn’t need to happen. As I made my way toward the car my feet hit some invisible—a mystery something—I tripped. Maybe my own shoelace? Perhaps even an unfortunate ladybug—I didn't know. Even now—years later— I don’t know. The next thing I did know was that shards of bowl lay around me—like fallen petals—from a glass flower. Chunks of watermelon and blood was splattered around, like some sort of twisted Jackson Pollock painting. All I could think was—I’ve just ruined the

watermelon.