I furiously pedaled my bicycle along the concrete sidewalk as the warm breeze stroked my face and made my hair fly in many directions. It was a summer evening, and the sun was beginning to set, lighting up the sky with various hues of orange and yellow. My mom and dad peddled their bikes ahead of mine, and my small legs pressed on harder in an effort to keep up. As I mindlessly rode along past various houses on the block, I thought about my sister and how lucky she was to go to a Saints game with my grandparents for her birthday. Meanwhile, I was stuck at home with nothing to do, so my parents decided to take me on a bike ride around the neighborhood.

As we rounded a corner, I craned my head to look behind me because I thought I heard the familiar sound of a car engine rumbling. Just as my head whipped back around, my face collided with hard metal. The force of the impact caused me to fly off of my bike and slam into the nearby grass. I was completely discombobulated, and I began to stumble up from the ground as my legs shook. I then turned to my left and saw that I had hit my face on the prongs of a metal forklift parked on the side of the road. My head was pounding, and my face was throbbing profusely. I touched my cheek to feel for any bruising. However, when I removed my hand, all I saw was a pool of blood on my fingers. Suddenly, my head began to spin, and my stomach churned. I screamed at the top of my lungs, and my parents rushed over to see if I was all right. I could barely respond with an audible answer because I was crying hysterically and choking on my words. My dad then proceeded to lift me up from the hard ground as I held my throbbing cheek with the palm of my hand. My parents and I ventured toward our house to assess the extent of my injury, while I wailed the entire way back.

Arriving at home, I immediately darted toward the mirror, and in my reflection, I noticed a deep gash very close to my right eye. I gasped in fear as blood began to trickle down my face. My dad examined the wound, concluding that I would need stitches. He then gave me a rag to hold on the gash to subdue the bleeding. While the ride to the ER felt like an eternity, my mom sat in the backseat with me, rubbing my shoulder and comforting me. In the waiting room, all I could think about was how much fun my sister was having at the football game while I was stuck in an ER with a deep bloody cut on my face. Finally, one of the doctors assessed my wound and brought me to a room to put in my stitches. I was squirming so much from feeling overly anxious that a nurse had to strap me to the chair. I cowered as the doctor injected a series of needles around the gash and stitched up my face. When everything was finally over, a nurse came by and stuck a Band-Aid over my stitched wound. Instantly, a wave of relief washed over me, and every trace of anxiety I had before disappeared. For being a trooper, I stopped at TCBY for cookie dough ice cream as compensation.

My sister arrived home from the Saint’s game around the same time I did from TCBY, and I recounted to her gruesome details, making myself out to be a lot braver than I actually was. I am extremely lucky that none of my injuries were severe because if I had hit the forklift any differently, I could have lost my eye. My life would have changed drastically if that were the case, and therefore, I am so thankful and appreciative that the gash was the extent of my injuries that summer evening.