Pick a Scar and Tell Its Story:
I have a scar on my left shin. It’s a small, pale reminder from around 2003, back when I was a sixth grader at Bridge Street Middle School in Elm Grove, West Virginia.
It was a “free day” in gym class, the kind every kid waited for. The gym was a normal one. Located in the school auditorium, long and rectangular, with bleachers lining one of the walls. About three-quarters of the bleachers ran along the wall, then there was an opening for the doorway, and on the other side, a smaller section, maybe a quarter of the full set.
I was up top on the longer side, full of energy, no sense of danger. I came running down the steps with my friend Brittany right behind me. We were laughing, just messing around, not thinking twice about how fast we were going.
I hit the bottom and made it to that open space between the bleachers, but Brittany didn’t. She slipped on a wet spot on the gym floor, lost her balance, and went sliding. Of course, straight into me.
We crashed hard, and both of us went down.
The smaller section of bleachers. You know that quarter part by the doorway I mentioned earlier. Had metal edges under, where you’d rest your feet. When we fell, one of those sharp metal bars caught my shin just right. It tore into my leg deep enough that I saw white… bone white. My favorite pants instantly stained with blood. Somehow remained unripped.
A U-shaped chunk of skin was gone. There was blood everywhere. My stepdad nearly passed out when he saw it, upon picking me up.
That was the first time I ever got stitches, but definitely not the first time I should’ve.
Now, every time I look at that scar, it’s not just pain I remember. It’s that wild mix of laughter, fear, and youth. You know, the way chaos and joy used to collide so easily before life got complicated.
That little scar on my shin is more than a mark.
It’s a snapshot of who I was before the world told me to grow up.
