Crap. I just doomed him. I should put a helmet on him RIGHT NOW.
Anyway. Here's the story of how I got my quarter inch scar through my eyebrow.
Recess. Sixth grade.
My friends and I are on the monkey bars taking turns hanging upside-down, with legs intertwined in the bars.
We hang down and face each other. Giggling.
I hang down, and pull myself up again. Then I drop my head down again; my blond hair dangles toward the dusty ground. My friend Jennifer (name changed, but we all had a friend named Jennifer in the '80s, right?) hangs down facing me, giggling. She pops back up again.
I can feel my face getting flush from hanging too long. Time to pull myself up again. Then...
I'm on the ground. Holding my head.
I realize that Jennifer dropped her head back down just as I was coming up. Head-on collision. The back of Jennifer's head struck the front of mine.
My friends gather around.
"Are you OK?" One of them says.
"Ya. Just give me a minute." I say, trying to stand back up and feeling around for my glasses.
"BLOOD!!!!" A girl yells with a blood-curdling scream.
I pull my hand back, and it is, in fact, covered in blood. My glasses became a weapon when Jennifer's head collided with mine. My glasses split my head right open along my eyebrow.
I'm walked to the front office and my mother is called.
"No, no. She seems OK. She's just sitting here with a towel on her head, but you'll want to pick her up." The front lady explained over the phone to my mother.
Side note: As a mother now, I know this call would have been quite disconcerting, but at the time I was just embarrassed. Who wants their mom called for a bump on the head? I was hoping I could just go back to class.My mom arrives quickly. As she walks into the office, and I go from a normal shade of light pale to ghost white.
"Are you OK?" Asks my mom and the lady at the front desk.
"Ya. I think I'm just thirsty." I head out into the hallway to drink from the fountain.
My ears start buzzing. My mom is trying to talk to me, but I can't hear her.
Everything fades to black.
Have I mentioned I'm a fainter?
I think my mom actually caught me before I hit the floor. I don't remember doing a "full faint." But fainters rarely do.
Now back in the office sitting on a chair, my mom -- a former nurse -- assesses my cut. She decides that taking me to the ER will be too traumatic for her little fainter, and the cut is only worth a stitch or two. Instead, she takes me home, and she fashions a butterfly bandage.
Have I mentioned my mom is awesome? Oh, I have. Well, it's worth mentioning again.
This post was prompted from Mama Kat's writing workshop prompt, "Scarred."