I almost went half blind. WHO DO I SUE?
SO, when I was little, I wanted a dirtbike. A black Huffy dirtbike, to be precise. My family was sort of amazingly typical middle class, I think: We had a house and a car and me and my brother wanted for nothing, but luxuries like brand-new bikes for your birthday required immense, D-Day levels of financial planning.
I got my dirtbike. For three days I pedaled up and down the block on training wheels, and on the fourth day two kids came by. One knocked me off the bike, and the other pedaled that fucking thing away so fast I was momentarily too shocked by this defiance of the laws of physics to make a scene.
Then, of course, I made a scene. But because of the aforementioned D-Day levels of planning, there was no way in hell that I was getting a replacement bike. My parents made that very clear to me as i sat there weeping openly. There would be no other shiny black Huffy dirtbike. I may be imagining this, but I think my Mother threw her arms open and shouted WELCOME TO JERSEY CITY, MOTHERFUCKER!
My parents weren’t heartless, though. They began working back channels, and a few weeks later secured a used Schwinn Ten Speed for me. It was kind of beat up and always felt like it was about to fall apart, but fuck it, it was a bike. When I was kid, a bike was like a car to an adult. You had to have one. So I learned to ride that bike and I rode it around and after a while I forgot about that Huffy. Except, obviously, I didn’t. I hope that kid got hit by a car two blocks away and got part of that dirtbike shoved up his ass.
ANYWAY, a few years on I took that Ten Speed to college with me. During the summer between my Junior and Senior years, I worked at a Student Center on another campus. I had a choice of taking the slow bus, walking about 2 miles, or riding my bike. Despite the fact that riding my bike required me to ride a thin-wheeled Ten Speed off road a bit, I chose to ride the bike. You can see where this is going: One day, while riding down a wooded path, the chain popped and I went flying. I landed more or less on my face, crushing my glasses, which stabbed into my face just below my eye, and I still have a divot there to this day.
I was a bit in shock, but I calmly got up, put the chain back on, and rode the rest of the way to work. I must have looked pretty bad because upon arrival everyone freaked out and for a few moments I was smothered with attention as first aid kits were broken out and I was assured I could just sit and relax for as long as I needed. Then, I just went back to work. It wasn’t until later that I contemplated how close I’d come to literally poking my eye out. In all the times my Mother had admonished me that things would poke my eyes out, my own glasses had never been on the list.
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Twenty years later, give or take, I write a novel where people are covered in scars because they’re constantly bleeding themselves to fuel magic spells, which require fresh blood to work. We Are not Good People is out in October, and the prequel Fixer is available as a free eBbook right now. Check ’em out, and then send me your own scar stories – the bloodier the better, so e can #gettheblood.
My own scars were gained by fairly uninteresting means. However. A couple of years ago, we were sailing from Panama to the Galapagos. My three-year-old was jumping around the cockpit (I can still hear myself saying, “stop it, you’ll get hurt.”). The boat lurched one way, she lurched another and split her head open near her eyebrow. We were two days out at sea: completely on our own.
In short, my husband gave her three stitches while I kept her calm (read: held her down), and her seven-year-old sister read us all a book.
Both girls love showing off their scars. They view them as badass rather than things to be hidden.
That is both a terrible and wonderful story. I definitely remember as a kid that every injury was initially the worst tragedy that has ever happened and subsequently the coolest thing I ever did.