I have changed the names to protect the innocent....and more importantly the guilty(me)Siblings at their best
Growing up with siblings there are always those times from our childhood that we all remember. I grew up in a family of five children all close in age. I am the second oldest, and I have always has a violent temper that has gotten me into trouble numerous times. I have exploded for no apparent reason, though I am sure that there were valid reasons to me at the time. I recall days of us running amok, throwing things, and screaming. The one thing I do know was that we did not swear. In retrospect, it now seems odd that cursing was a taboo, but pulling a kitchen knife when cornered was an acceptable response.
The most vivid memory, now a comedy to tell, was when I was about twelve years old. My sister
Kindred, who is only a year older than I, were arguing about something. To this day, we cannot remember the reason why. What I do know is that the chase ended in the bathroom, and I was angry. When faced with that kind of rage, I was strong with adrenaline pumping through me. My mouth was dry. My stomach was twisting and turning. I felt a prickly itch creep into my armpits as my heart climbed into my throat. I knew I was out of control.
Kindred had made it to the bathroom, the safe room if you could close and lock the door in time. She was not fast enough today. As I came around the corner, I pushed the door open. I saw her standing there red faced, her were eyes darting wildly. She looked like a trapped animal searching for a way to escape. Realizing there was no way out, her body stiffened for the fight to come. She knew, as I did, that there was going to be no peaceable end to this.
I flew at her, screaming like a wildcat on the rampage. Before I knew it, my hand was tangled in her hair, and I was on her back. She was trying to protect herself, but it was to no avail. I spotted a bottle of bleach on the toilet tank and reached for it. While I was grasping the bottle, I realized we had an intrigued audience. My younger sister
Dawn stood stoically leaning on the doorframe. She was picking her fingernails and watching. My brother
Trey, about nine at the time, stood warily in the hall looking concerned.
I swung the container toward
Kindred’s face from behind. She bent her body forward as I did this, causing me to lose part of my grip on her. I was not going to let her get away, and I started lashing out frantically trying to get another hold. I finally felt my hand make contact with her face. My finger sensing the damp sponginess of her eyeball and I pushed harder as she shrieked. If she tried to pull away, the pressure grew harder. “My eye! My eye!” she wailed. “It’s going to fall out!” I shook the bleach bottle one more time and it flew out of my hand.
I am not always aware of my surroundings in my fits of destruction, so I had not noticed until now that my brother had started to panic. His eyes were wide and intense. He was crying and running toward
Kindred with his arms reaching for her. His hands were cradling something as if it were so precious and fragile.
Trey then raised his hands to her face, where she had her hands cupped over her eye. “Here
Kindred, here!’ he sobbed. I went hot with terror. I felt as if I were going to pee my pants. I was hearing a horrible scream, only to realize it was rising from my chest.
The reality of what I had done hit me like a speeding train. My legs were flushing with a sudden warmth and weakness. I crumbled to the floor and started sobbing, “I’m sorry
Kindred. I’m so sorry.” My mind started racing. How can I fix her eye? I do not understand how to put it back in. The sound of blood rushing in my ears was deafening. My lungs seemed to seize and catch fire.
I looked up through my tears, not wanting to reveal the horror of my actions, but knowing I had to face it. How can I fix it without knowing the extent of my damage? I glance up at
Trey, who was now motionless with his hands at his sides, dripping with water. He was pale, but looked confused.
Kindred was still crying, and now sitting on the toilet lid. Her body bent over, her hands still on her face. “
Kindred are you alright?” I managed to rasp out. My throat was burning through every word. She pulled her hands down from her face, both eyes looking as blue as the sea. She was blinking quite a bit as she said, “I’m telling Mom when she gets home.”
From behind me, I heard laughter. I turned back to see
Dawn giggling as if she had just enjoyed a Monday night sit-com. She had watched the whole event and had a perspective than none of us involved had.
Trey had reacted to the threat of the bleach. He had dutifully filled his hands with water to help clean
Kindred’s eyes. He did not know that the bleach had never been opened. I, on the other hand, was somehow convinced that he was handing my sister her eyeball back. My panic has never been as intense as it was the day I believed that I poked my sister’s eye out.
This story still can bring us to tears at Thanksgiving and other family occasions. The tears and pain we have when reminiscing about this day are from side-slitting laughter. The comedy of it all now, however, is not far from the intensity of panic we experience on the day it happened.
