Tuesday, November 28, 2006
He went after those three mice next, the sick bastard
So, this one time, at band camp, my brother stabbed me in the face. Ok, so it wasn't band camp, it was our living room, but my brother did indeed stab me in the face.
About an 1/8 of an inch from my eyeball, to be exact. That's right, I was almost BLINDED whilst being stabbed in the FACE by my BROTHER (be honest, y'all. Do the caps make it all that much more dramatic or are they just a pain in the ass?)
Anyway, one day, way back in 1978, when I was about 9 years old and my brother Joel was about 15, we were play fighting. He was pretending to try to stab me and I was pretending to fight him off.
(Okay, one of the reasons I took so long to tell this story is that I cannot figure out how to tell it without my brother coming across as a vaguely retarded psychopath. I assure you, he is neither. However, I will concede that he was a huge dumbass who should have known better. In fact, he's still a dumbass, but he hasn't tried to stab anyone in years.)
So, anyway, we were playing and he was holding his old (rusty!) pocketknife over me. I, in turn, was holding his arm and hollering my head off (because that's what you do when someone is trying to stab you. I still have a finely tuned sense of drama)
Now, he wasn't exerting any pressure on my arm; he wasn't actually attempting to stab me, but he wasn't holding his arm's weight up either. So when I let go of his arm and went to get up, his arm fell and the knife landed very close to my left eye.
To be truthful, I didn't even know I was injured until my brother's face went white and he told me that I was bleeding.
We lived way out in the country then and had no phone. My mother was either at work or at school when this occurred and Joel was responsible for the rest of us. Which is rather hilarious, if you think about it.
Anyway, the closest phone available to us was at the little mom and pop store down the road from our house. So Joel slapped a paper towel or something over my eye, picked me up and started to run down the road, with my other brothers running alongside.
He ran until he couldn't carry me anymore (about 200 feet, the pussy), put me down and told me I was going to have to run. Which I did, because to be honest, the blood running down my face was really starting to freak me out.
We get to the little store and the sweet little old people there assure us that I am fine and then call my mother and assure her that I am fine and then hand out Hershey Bars and Cokes to all of us.
Now, I called Joel this evening to get his memories of it and he was hopped up on muscle relaxers because his back went out. Karma? Oh yes.
He said he didn't remember there being any blood. I asserted that this perception was due to his guilty conscience over having STABBED ME IN THE FACE, and if there hadn't been blood, why in fuck had we run down the road to get help. He conceded my point.
Anyway, I told him that he was lucky that Mom hadn't killed him. He replied that he was lucky he hadn't killed me. I told that wasn't likely but that I was very glad he hadn't poked my eye out as it would have totally lessened my attractiveness to the opposite sex. Then he said something vaguely dirty about my possible popularity as the one-eyed girl.
I think it's obvious that neither one of us learned a lesson from this, don't you?
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