Shape of the Cut

I waited for her to come out, and she did. Slowly coming into the kitchen where I was now bolt upright in the chair, as straight as the back of the very chair I was sitting in. My eyes must have been staring at her in fear and felt like they were the size of saucers. She stopped near the door. Now, I don’t know if my sister fancied herself as a bit of an actress. She had certainly been involved in a few theatrical items at school and had already competed in a few talent competitions in front of the public, but, right at that moment, she extended herself and took full advantage of any minor skills she may already have practiced. She entered stopping in the doorway and making full use of what could only be described as ‘a dramatic pause’ (or Rocky Horror lovers… ‘Antici’…….you know the rest). In fact it probably wasn’t so much a dramatic pause as it was a dramatic stop. She looked at me with pity. My heart sank.

‘He’s alright isn’t he?” I had asked. Thinking she had more bad news. She then realised she had been dramatically waiting to announce what she had been told. ‘Oh, yes, He’s okay”. She replied quickly. “Apart from 48 stitches.” “Wow!” I said not laughing, but really amazed. “48. That’s a lot”. I was impressed. I had received several cuts and been stitched on several occasions, but forty-eight! He would probably look like Frankenstien’s monster. Then I remembered disappointingly, the head split was not a horizontal cut across his forehead, but was a vertical cut, (median –Sagittal plane for you anatomy types), which ran from the front (and yes, anterior - ventral) of his head across the scalp, to the back of his head (posterior –dorsal). So we would be lucky to even see half the stitches, unless they have shaved his head completely. That would look so cool. Once he recovered of course.

I rapidly came back to earth when her look focused my thinking back to me, and what to expect with what I had been waiting to hear. “Mother said that you are to be sent to your bed. They will speak to you when they get home, but it probably won’t be till tomorrow morning.” Tomorrow morning? How could I sleep waiting for my father to come home to deal with me. Not that he needed to I thought. “It was an accident,” I began. “I know”, my sister said, “Just go and brush your teeth and wash your face for bed.” I got up from the table and went to the bathroom. Brushed my teeth and returned to my room. My other brothers were already asleep on their bunks. No support there. As I slept on the bottom bunk, I wouldn’t wake my next youngest brother, so changed into my pyjamas and climbed into bed. I lay there, thinking of my father’s imminent return and before long, despite my best efforts, the stress, the nervousness and my young age, took it’s toll, as I fell asleep. Tomorrow would be a new day.

(Continued tomorrow)