I was just a kid. A little girl, with nine brothers. And one sister. We were were living in very close quarters, sharing one bathroom, in our three bedroom house. So, not surprisingly, things went a bit haywire, especially when the kids were simply bored.
Well, I was in that one bathroom, washing my hands. And one of my brothers, or maybe it was two of them, were in there, too. It could have been Kit, or maybe Bill, or both. It wasn't Andy, I think he would have been a bit young, and the older ones must have been out. Somewhere. Except for Mike. Who was there. Not in the bathroom. But in the house. Somewhere.
Just as I was reaching for a towel to dry my nicely cleaned hands, one of those brothers - Kit or Bill - decided to be funny and grabbed it before I could take claim. And just as any sister would, who didn't want to whine and cry like a baby, but instead chose to confront her pestering brother, I lunged toward that somewhat older bro' of mine, grabbing the towel, and with all my strength, yanked it out of his grasp.
Unfortunately, before he let go, he held on tight, then lickety-split, he loosened his hold, causing my left arm to whip back uncontrolled; and, so, the top of my hand popped straight into the metal thingy that was protruding from the wall of the in the progress of being repaired shower. That metal sunk deeply into my flesh before I quickly yanked it out and just stared at the hole in my writing hand, then at my opened-mouthed brothers.
Being the big girl I was, I didn't cry, much. I just looked in amazement at the cartilage I could see below the surface of skin and in between my finger bones. And then the blood flowed.
Within minutes, I'm sure, my one and only sister came in asking what all the commotion was about. I simply held out my hand to show her what my no good brother had done to me. As any concerned sis would, she reacted quickly, grabbing a towel, and drove, in a panicked state, to the hospital while my helpful brother Mike squeezed my hand trying to stop the blood from oozing out. Squeezed tight until a doctor was able to suture the gash with five or six stitches.
Well, I was in that one bathroom, washing my hands. And one of my brothers, or maybe it was two of them, were in there, too. It could have been Kit, or maybe Bill, or both. It wasn't Andy, I think he would have been a bit young, and the older ones must have been out. Somewhere. Except for Mike. Who was there. Not in the bathroom. But in the house. Somewhere.
Just as I was reaching for a towel to dry my nicely cleaned hands, one of those brothers - Kit or Bill - decided to be funny and grabbed it before I could take claim. And just as any sister would, who didn't want to whine and cry like a baby, but instead chose to confront her pestering brother, I lunged toward that somewhat older bro' of mine, grabbing the towel, and with all my strength, yanked it out of his grasp.
Unfortunately, before he let go, he held on tight, then lickety-split, he loosened his hold, causing my left arm to whip back uncontrolled; and, so, the top of my hand popped straight into the metal thingy that was protruding from the wall of the in the progress of being repaired shower. That metal sunk deeply into my flesh before I quickly yanked it out and just stared at the hole in my writing hand, then at my opened-mouthed brothers.
Being the big girl I was, I didn't cry, much. I just looked in amazement at the cartilage I could see below the surface of skin and in between my finger bones. And then the blood flowed.
Within minutes, I'm sure, my one and only sister came in asking what all the commotion was about. I simply held out my hand to show her what my no good brother had done to me. As any concerned sis would, she reacted quickly, grabbing a towel, and drove, in a panicked state, to the hospital while my helpful brother Mike squeezed my hand trying to stop the blood from oozing out. Squeezed tight until a doctor was able to suture the gash with five or six stitches.
Good Lord! Amazing you didn't cry. I would cry NOW as an adult! Well written. :)
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