My scar
October 3rd 2006 07:47
Santa found it hard to find work on the other 364 days of the year
I was 12, on my way home from school with my mates, and walking a broken route interrupted by the local shops and friends’ houses. We were young, we were lads, and, most evidently, we were stupid.
We, that is, me, a boy named Patrick who may have had two much red cordial as a baby (as one teacher put it) and two other friends both named Daniel, had stopped off at a vacant block of land along our way home. This block was overgrown with weeds and ant-hills and has not been built on to this day, a surprising absence considering the urban sprawl around it. Considering the block’s closeness to the local bottle shop it was less surprising to note the large amount of glass bottles strewn about it.
Immediately, Pat and I began to smash the bottles across the ground. Now this may seem a little odd now, but… yes, okay, it was an odd thing to do then as well. Actually I have no idea why it occurred to me at this age that causing glass to explode near my feet and legs would be fun. Anyhow, Pat and I also decided to smash beer bottles while facing each other, less than a metre apart, while the two Daniels watched on. As the laws of the universe have it, it was only a matter of time before one of us got injured. And so, I was rushed to the house of the nearer Daniel, holding my bloody hand in pale fright, convinced I could see the watery bone within my split knuckle.
Pat yelped and bolted home. I became very dismayed to say the least and wept that one of my perfect hands would have stitches in it and an immortal scar afterwards. My parents were called and my Dad had trouble believing my (truthfully told) story for unknown reasons. I got off school for a week and didn’t do any writing for another seven days after that. And I never smashed glass again.
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