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[This is a paper I did for a college class about an incident that happened to me as a kid.] "Why don't you all go outside and play?" my mother asked as she carried her filled laundry basket toward the glass storm door. "It's too nice out to stay here in the garage." Her voice echoed off the cement floor as the poorly-adjusted door slammed behind the fading image of her body. Why should we listen to her? We were completely content in the garage, playing our various games. Why should the five of us (my sister, Michelle; three neighborhood friends, and I) allow the weather to alter our plans? So what if the sun was shining brightly to complement the warm breeze blowing outside; we wanted to play inside. Besides, I was six whole years old; Mother Nature shouldn't be allowed to push me around.
We began choosing sides for our next activity when I noticed Mom approaching the garage door with her just-emptied basket. "I really wish you would all go outside and play. Get out for some fresh air." As we pretended to ignore her, Mom continued walking across the garage, opened the kitchen door, and closed it behind her. It bothered me that my own mother was siding with nature. Michelle suggested we listen to Mom and switch to an outdoor game. That really made me angry. I was committed to staying in that garage and finishing those indoor games. Be it the need to prove the power of disobedience or whatever, my mind was made up. After some diplomacy, we continued our activities. Not more than two minutes had passed when I saw the kitched door open and my mom's face appear. "I thought I told you to go outside and play! I'm not going to tell you again!" My pulse rate jumped as the door slammed shut. Going outside now would be admitting my defeat. We simply had to continue. But the group was becoming tense; they valued the skin on their back ends. The effectiveness of my diplomacy was diminishing. As I made my final attempts to keep the group inside, my mother appeared in a hurricane of fury. "Why don't you ever listen?! When I told you to go outside, I meant it!" Her face reddened and her voice became a painful shriek. "Now get out!" Her shaking, outstretched arm signalled that she meant business. I knew I had lost the battle, and in my rage, I charged toward that dreaded outside door. When my hand came in contact with the door, I was stopped instantly by an unknown force. I heard the frightening sound of shattering glass. As the tears of rage cleared from my eyes, I confirmed my dreaded suspicion: I had missed the handle and my hand was now stuck between two sharp, pointed, triangular pieces of glass. I was instantly gripped with shock as my heart rate doubled and pain was replaced with dizziness. My mother's adrenalin soared through her body as she heroically forced the remaining glass from the window. I was freed! But the caverns in my hand were erupting geysers of crimson fluid. Mom hurriedly dragged me across the yard to a neighbor's house, leaving a marked trail on the lawn. With the help of the neighbors, my mother proceeded to wrap my gruesome hand. We then rushed to the car, and the neighbor kids' mother darted behind the wheel while my mom cradled me in her lap. At one time during the never-ending ride to the hospital, I looked up into my mother's eyes and asked, "Am I going to die?" She gave a negative reply, but the shakiness in her voice revealed she wasn't very certain. We finally arrived, and before I knew it, I was lying face up on some kind of operating table. I screamed with pain as the doctor pierced my hand with a huge needle. I lay there for what seemed like years, with tears in my eyes as I watched a needle and thread pass through my mutilated hand. Finally, it was all over. As we drove home, my sister added insult to injury by telling me that she and the neighbor kids had gone for ice-cream while I was being repaired. As I lay in bed that evening, with my bandage-covered hand beside my face, I heard my father finally arrive home from work. My mother had called him while I was in the emergency room, so he had plenty of time to create harsh punishments for me breaking the window. When he entered the room, I looked up grimly and asked, "Are you going to punish me bad?" He sighed, "Well, I think you've been punished enough already." Agreeing, I slowly drifted to sleep. Now, many years later, as I look down at the small scars on my right hand, I realize the significance of the accident. It is important to know when to give up -- give up too early, and I'll never accomplish anything; give in too late, and I may end up in a terrible condition.
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