Most nearly everyone has a scar story. Some people have little chickenpox scars, some people have enormous shark bite scars. Some people got hit on the head with a hammer in a chemistry class, some people fell off a swing when they were six and now have a rugged scar on their chin which they pretend they got in a fight. I have a cool scar on my leg. This is the story of the scar on my leg.
When I was nine years old, and my mum was far away doing theatre things in America, I slept in my parents’ bed until my dad came to bed, at which point he would carry me to my own bed. This particular night I was sleeping in the Giant Parents’ Bed, just like most nights. I remember getting up and going to the bathroom and that my leg felt a bit sore but I went back to bed and fell back asleep. A little while later, at about 11.30pm, I wanted a drink of water. I got up and was walking down the stairs when my dad turned round and suddenly shouted “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO YOUR LEG?” and I looked down there was blood pouring down the outside of my right leg. Naturally, I was a bit perturbed. My dad carried me to the kitchen and sat me on the counter and checked that I was generally okay. I don’t remember feeling any pain, just a bit of an ache, and my dad went next door to get the neighbour to call for an ambulance (dad’s deaf).
The ambulance came and I got a ride in it and it was cool but they wouldn’t put the siren on for me. At the hospital they found me a bed and me and my dad sat and read comics and stuff for four hours until they could see me (hey, it’s free). The nurse asked me how many stitches I thought I would have and I said six, but in the end I had nine and I was very brave because my dad has a phobia of needles and I had to be there all on my own. The nurses who injected me was a student nurse and the needle slipped. I remember that hurting. At the end of it all I got a certificate to say how brave I was.
When we got home at about 5am, we went to have a look at what caused the cut. That was when we say that despite sleeping on a white sheet, there was only one drop of blood. No blood anywhere else. None on the floor. None in the bathroom. There was nothing sharp in the bedroom and nothing sharp in the bathroom. Nothing which could have caused such a deep cut. The edge of the toilet seat was the wrong height and not nearly sharp enough. There were no protruding springs in the bed. My dad looked and looked, concerned that I could cut myself again, but we never ever found out what it was. Seriously, we don’t have a clue what could’ve caused it. But it does mean I have a cool scar.
Personally, I think it was elves.
What’s your scar story?