Friday, February 17, 2012

Day Seven: 

A scar is a memory, too: A silhouette of a day in August 2005 in 19 sentences or less (or more if you count a parenthetic phrase or two).

I have a scar on my knee.

This is because a few years ago I was in Toronto.

I was on the wrong floor of a very tall mall.

I was in transit on the escalator.

I turned around to go back up.

Just thought I could hop the distance.

I tripped and fell.

I fell right onto the teeth of the escalator.

The TEETH of the escalator.


I then cried out (something like), "AHHHHHHHH! AGG! AGG! OW! OW! AHG! ACK!"

My dad picked me up (I was 21 then; he is a firefighter and picks people up sometimes)

(Part of the job, you know)

(Am I cheating on my sentence count with these parenthesis?)


He put me on a couch.

(That floor happened to be a furniture store)

(I was bleeding all over the place)

Some kind of employee came with a first aid kit

(English was his second language)

He said he cannot tell if I need stitches

(Too many gallons of blood at that point; it was like the Niagara Falls of Doom)

(Did I mention I was on a brand new couch in a furniture store? I think it may have been a white or cream couch....yes, yes; I think it was cream)

I said, "Thank you, Eduardo, for your assessment."

(Everyone looked at me funny:  It seems his name was NOT Eduardo, and I had thought he said it was)

Soon we got up and I limped back to the hotel.

I did not get stitches

(But I do have a scar; a scar on my knee)

Every scar is a memory, you see.

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