A Broken Wing

December 14, 2011
By Emeraldstar SILVER, Bland, Missouri
Emeraldstar SILVER, Bland, Missouri
8 articles 0 photos 0 comments

“Ben H.!” I look over to see who it is that is calling me. It was Josh, one of the only boys, who’s in my class. Somehow I haven’t gotten used to being called ‘Ben H.’ even after four years of it. “Ben!” I run over to him.
“Yeah, what is it?”
“I was just wondering if you wanted to play soccer with us, because basically everyone else is playing.” He turns his head side-to-side, to see the others already in the parking lot.
“Okay, why not… I haven’t got anything else better to do.” I mumble to myself. No sport is interesting to me, but I still like playing with my friends. Even after four years, I’m still shy around other people, but something like this gives me the opportunity to fit in, to be one of the guys.
A while after playing, we are still running up and down the gym wall and the chained fencing facing it. Each side has scored. When I see an opening, I run to kick the ball, it coming closer and closer, and then I collide with Collin. During all this I was thinking again and again inside my head, ‘Oh no, I’m going to hit the pavement.’ I try my hardest to try to brake my fall to the hard surface below me. Why didn’t you move or stop before you rammed into me? I wonder. I started to fall and do most sensible thing at the time. I try to catch myself from getting hurt badly.
I hit the ground, watch first, causing a tremor travel through my arm to tell my brain what to feel at this moment, pain. I feel an extreme amount of pain in my left arm. ‘Shoot, dan it, I didn’t just break my arm, did I?’ I start to cry but silently, because I know no one could take my pain away at that moment. I just want everyone away from me, who is starting to crowd around me. I worry they want to see how soft Ben really is! That’s when I do a really stupid thing, trying to get up with both hands. More pain shoots through my left arm like a fiery bullet from a smoking gun. I want the pain gone. I don’t want to feel anything at all.
People start asking dumb questions like “Are you hurt?” “Need my help?” “Is there anything broken?” “Need our help getting up?” But all I really want is to be left alone for a while. I don’t want to answer their idiotic questions. I just want to close myself off to everything around me, but I keep getting pulled back in by this annoying pain.
“Clear the way, please, so I can have a look.” Mrs. Whitefield says with a calming voice. “Do you hurt?”
“Yes!” I croak through the tears.
“Where does it hurt?” Better question then the last.
“I think… my left… arm!” I say between sniffs.
“Okay, why don’t you sit down at the picnic table for the rest of recess, and I’ll call your mom to pick you up.” Right now, all I want is to be comforted. My mom can always give that to me.
I walk over to the table to sit out the rest of recess, and began to feel angry at myself for making my mom stop to take care of me, instead of being over at preschool with her students.
After recess, I wait at the Office bench for my mom to pick me up. I got some ice for the bruise that was forming around where my watch was. The coldness never felt so good.
A few minutes later, my mom picks me up.
“I’m sorry about this,” I say in the van.
“Ben, you don’t have to apologize about what happened. It was an accident. There was nothing you could’ve done to stop it.” I’m feeling sorry for myself to make myself feel better. But I need someone to say that it wasn’t my fault.
As my mom says, maybe next time I’ll be more careful. Taking risks is how we learn, but safety is just as important as trying to follow our goals to their fullest potential.
After going to the doctor’s office, I learn that my arm isn’t broken but fractured. And I can still play videogames. Yes! Okay, I can still play SOME two-handed games, sort of!

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