Feb 12, 2010
Scarred for Life
Here is a reminder that sometimes your friends are incorrect and you shouldn’t listen to them. I have the scar to prove it.
I’m in high school at a bush party. We came from a small town and that’s what we did every weekend in “the valley”. We drank, we listened to guitars, and we smoked pot, along with everything else illegal. Every once in a while the local police had to show their faces in the valley and when that happened you would hear the dreaded screech “5-0”. The place would scatter; kids running here and there and all over the place. Since we were regulars and knew the forest like the back of our hand, we were always able to outsmart “the pigs”. We knew the back trails and the best hiding spots. We would wait them out and continue the party once they had left.
One night I may have had a just a little too much to drink. When the “5-0” showed up and we all ran; I ran the wrong direction. It was dark, I was drunk and then suddenly I fell... then I was wet. Shit… I found the creek. I fell in the water and my leg sort of stung. I didn’t dare move– I could see the scanning flashlights above my head. I figured I was safe in the crevasse of the creek; except being wet and getting cold. I wondered how long it would take for the cops to bust a few kids and be gone. How long could I sit in the creek? Did I mention my leg hurt a bit? I decided to feel it out; I felt something slimly. From past experiences I realized that the slime was blood mixing with water. I could then feel that there was a huge rip in my jeans. Damn it! My favourite jeans; I looked hot in those jeans.
Eventually all was quiet and it was time for everyone to come out of the forest. Some people were wondering around and trying to find their friends. I knew our crew usually met at the top of the hill, so off I went. I had a beer here and there with people I passed. Did I mention my leg hurt? I figured it couldn’t be that bad, I was walking after all. So I finally get to the top of the hill. My friends were loyally waiting and we decided to walk into town for a slice of pizza. I thought: Great! There were lights in town so I could check out my leg.
We got to the plaza and there were other “valley kids” there as well. I located the cut that was on the back of my leg, but I couldn’t see it so I asked my friends, “Hey guys, check out my leg!” They didn’t seem shocked; they said there was blood but it was “just a scratch”. I was happy with that. The second group of “valley kids” thought otherwise. I heard someone say, “Oh my God! You should go the hospital!” Someone else piped in, “That’s pretty deep – put some pressure on it.” My response to that was, “Na, it’s just a scratch – it’ll be fine!” I probably had enough booze in me to successfully mask the pain, so to me, it was “just a scratch”. I eventually went home to bed.
When I woke up the next morning, my leg was stuck to my PJ’s and my PJ’s were stuck to my bed. Feeling the effects of a hangover and not really remembering too much from the night before, I ignored this odd situation and got up – ripping the cut open again. Blood everywhere... again. Oh well! I got some peroxide and some bandages from the cupboard and dressed my wound. It took forever to heal and I should have gotten at least 10 stitches.
Moving ahead quite a few years later, I now have a disgustingly large purple scar 3 inches in length and about 2cm wide on the back of my leg, which, according to my drunken ass friends, was “just a scratch”. Cheers!
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