The glass shattered in my hand and thin shards embedded themselves in my palm. One piece, jagged and sharp, tore the flesh deep and my blood came out in a steady stream into the sink, onto the counter and the white linoleum floor.
As I slipped on the carpeted stairs in the hallway, I landed first on my bum then grazed my back pulling a thin and perfectly round layer of skin that took a month to heal.
My friend and I, drunk on rum and a series of bad jokes suddenly and inexplicably attacked each other with pillows, then fists, knees and elbows until we were left laughing, panting and bruised. The swelling on my arm where I hit the wall and the bruise on his forehead where I head-butted him took a day or two to go away.
My cat leapt from my lap and as she kicked her back paws away for her landing, she scratched my bare leg. I still hold the scar over 15 years later.
As injuries go, mine are minor. How is it that as human beings we can get hurt so easily, through seeming innocuous acts and take so long for the scars to go away. At other times, people walk again after falls, sports injuries, car crashes, major surgeries involving tubes and scalpels and carry on as if nothing had happened. I don’t think there’s a person on earth that doesn’t have a scar somewhere.
Pick one of yours. Tell us about it, how you got it, when it happened, who was there, how it felt. Leave out nothing.
Writing Prompt: Fragile Things