All Nonfiction Bullying Books Academic Author Interviews Celebrity interviews College Articles College Essays Educator of the Year Heroes Interviews Memoir Personal Experience Sports Travel & CultureAll Opinions Bullying Current Events / Politics Discrimination Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking Entertainment / Celebrities Environment Love / Relationships Movies / Music / TV Pop Culture / Trends School / College Social Issues / Civics Spirituality / Religion Sports / Hobbies
- Summer Guide
- College Guide
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Personal Experience
- Travel & Culture
- Current Events / Politics
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
- Community Service
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
Martyr of Staples
“Go in your room.”
“Can’t I stay here?” my brother asked, near tears.
“No. I got stuff to do.” I said, even though it wasn’t true. It was a bland Saturday afternoon and I sat on my flashy purple bed-set, disinterestedly picking at scraps of frilly paper that had fallen out of my notebook.
“They’re arguing… I wanna stay here,” my brother whined.
Absently, I beckoned to the door yet kept my glance on the paper. I heard him sigh, stomp off, and forcedly close the door.
Noticing my stapler was out of staples, I picked it up and opened its snapping jaws. I, amused by the Tccck! Sound it made, continued to snap it open and close. My hand reached over to my bag and removed the small box of staples. After taking them out, I slammed it into the stapler and punched the top. For some odd reason, the stapler sprung open again.
I placed it on the bed and whacked it again, yet it sprung open once more. Without thinking, I placed my thumb directly under the hole where staples came out and squished the top together.
I suppressed a shout as I quickly removed the stapler to reveal my bleeding stapled thumb. The stapler sprung open again.
I ran furiously to the living room where my parents were arguing. I never remembered what they fought about, but I remember my English teacher telling me that the cause of all disagreements was money. Perhaps this could be applied here.
Not noticing me, they continued to argue and angrily waved their hands.
Standing there, I cradled my injured thumb and tapped my foot.
“You know—" she was telling my father.
“Oh yeah...” he responded.
“Well what if –"
“Off course, you’re always right…”
“Why don’t you –"
“Why don’t you –"
“Well, if I wasn’t always—"
“Cause you do everything…”
“MAMA!” I yelled, crying out in pain.
Surprised to see me, she turned.
“I stapled myself,” I mewed pitifully.
Her eyes widened as I sat down between them. My father held my hand while she carefully ripped out the staple, deeply wedge in my large thumb.
“There there...” she comforted.
She applied hand-sanitizer while tears flew down my face. When a band-aid was applied, I returned to my room, straining my ears to hear what would happen. But nothing did; they turned and left to go to work.
Later, she privately asked me if I had done this on purpose. To this, I shook my head.
“That’s too painful for me to attempt it to myself…”
“Oh. We thought you did. Don’t ever do that. Staple yourself, I mean.”
I laughed and stared at my newly healed thumb.
At least they stopped fighting.