Alright folks, I think it's high time for another entry, don't you? ;) So for my English class at school we were given the assignment to write a personal narrative about a story in our life.
I chose to write about a traumatic experience I had as a child that involves a steep hill, rocks, and two children on bicyles (one of which was me, if you hadn't guessed). If you want to spend three minutes reading it, here you go. BADABING.
Personal Narrative
It was a hot summer day, the kind of day that you find
yourself wishing for winter just so it would cool down. A gentle breeze was
blowing the leaves on the trees back and forth, and I enjoyed listening to them
rustle. It was just enough to tease me that I might in fact cool down, but of
course I didn’t. So instead of relying on the breeze to refresh me, I had an
ice cold lemonade in my hand. I looked forward to every gulp because it chilled
my throat and restored my faith in summer.
It was back when I lived in my old neighborhood; the one
where my block only had ten houses. Back when I only went to school for half of
a day, and when I was as wild as the wind and as carefree as any kid would be
at seven years old. It was the time when we played Ghost in the Graveyard every
night, but were still home for our 8 o’ clock bed-time.
I loved that time.
I was sitting in front of my house with my lemonade when
I saw Chris coming over. Chris lived two doors down from my house, and he was
one of the many kids my age on the block.
“Hey Chris.” I said.
“Hey, wanna play?” Chris smiled. I knew that he had been
pretty bored lately, and so I said yes. “So… What do you want to do?” he asked.
“Why don’t we ride bikes?” I suggested. That was always a
popular activity in our neighborhood, and Chris enthusiastically agreed.
We rode around our block about ten times. Racing, chasing,
doing “stunts,” etc. But of course, us being kids, we soon got bored because of
our short attention span. We needed something new. Something extravagant.
Something… awesome. And that’s when
we knew what we would do.
The Hill.
Now before I go on, I have to explain a few things. First
of all, this wasn't just any hill. This was The
Hill. It was a winding road that went up on about a 45 degree slant, had
houses along each curve, and was extremely dangerous for two seven year old
boys on their very own “two-wheels.” For some reason, all the kids in the
neighborhood, including me, chanted, “We’re going down the Cherry Falls, we’re
going down the Cherry Falls!” every time we drove down it. Why we called it the
Cherry Falls, I still have no idea. Its’ shorter nickname was “The Squiggly
Hill,” and the Squiggly-Cherry-Falls-Hill was what we were going to conquer
that day. Oh yes, and one more thing. Since we were seven years old and knew
that we were invincible, weren’t wearing any helmets.
After arriving at the top of the hill, we looked at each
other as if to say, “I am so ready for this!” But, right before going down, we
simultaneously decided that we probably shouldn’t be riding in the middle of
the street. After all, that was dangerous. So once we had made that decision,
we went over to the left sidewalk and prepped for take-off.
Five…Four…Three…Race you to the bottom! And we were off.
Looking back, I realize that the second most stupid thing
we did that day, besides not wearing a helmet, was peddling downhill. But oh
man, were we flying! It was such a thrilling ride. We became the wind as we
weaved down the Squiggly Hill, practically soaring on our bicycles. Yes, we
were Speed itself. That is, until Chris hit a crack in the sidewalk.
All I remember from that moment on is blurred. I can see
Chris tumbling over the front of his bicycle. I can see him lying face down on
that big rock. I remember a lady running out of her house to help him up, and I
remember accidentally running into her back and flying off my bike as well. I
remember sitting dazed on the sidewalk while the lady carried Chris into her
house. I don’t remember Chris ever screaming. I think he might have passed out.
There was blood everywhere, and I was still sitting with my bike a few feet
from me on the sidewalk. Surprisingly, I only walked away with a few scratches.
I must not have landed on my head like Chris did.
I remember being told later that day that Chris’ mom had
freaked out when she heard what had happened to us, but strangely enough, I don’t
remember my mom’s reaction. I’m sure I was grounded. Chris’ mom had called an ambulance
the moment she heard about our accident, but apparently the ambulance was a
little too slow getting there, and so she drove Chris to the hospital herself,
putting towels down in the back seat where he was so that the blood didn’t get
in the car.
A week or so later I was standing on the street corner
waiting for something. I don’t remember what it was, but that’s when I saw
Chris again. He was walking up the street toward me, and he didn’t look too
different except for his bruised face. When he got closer however, I saw that
there was a little more than just some black and blue.
“Hey, Chris! …What’s up?”
“Hey man,” he replied.
“So, how many stitches did you get?” I asked.
“Thirteen,” he replied.
He told me a while later, once he had had enough time to
laugh about the experience himself, that his forehead had apparently been
gashed so deep that the doctors could see his skull.
Since that time, I have never ridden back down the
Squiggly Hill on my bike. Even though I wasn’t injured, the story will
definitely stay with me forever.
