Marked for Death! (Childhood Narrative)

It was my seventh birthday, and all my presents were coming to an end. My hopes were beginning to diminish, breaking into tiny pieces like dishes being thrown against the wall by a disgruntle woman who's pissed at her husband and whose marriage is in need of serious counseling. I asked my mom for one simple thing, one simple darn thing, and I didn't even get that from her. Matter of fact, she didn't get me or my brother anything for my birthday. I got your occasional toys, your occasional selection of clothes, and that sweater that your grandmother get you that she thinks is simply adorable but in reality is hideous beyond all reason. My twin and I were at the point of balling until we saw them. There they were, brand new shiny mossy green bikes, 5 speeds, and all ours. My brother and I did ball at that moment, but from excitement and simple joy. We jumped up and down, screaming our little lungs out, our fat pudgy bodies trying so hard to follow with the momentum of each action. We quickly sprinted as fast as our fat legs could carry us towards our new bikes. We hugged them, hugged our parents, and hugged the bikes again; we were like two little fat kids in a candy store. What we didn't know though, was that these two bikes were to mark us for death.

Our first incident occurred while coming home from our beloved junior high. My brother and I are always in a race to play the Nintendo. Whether it be racing to get up in the morning, to get home after school, or whether it be getting home from jogging at the junior high, it's always a race. Well, my mom used to force us to jog every day around 7, but us being these fat kids, we didn't like exercising. Well, it was a race to finish our laps before each other in order to arrive at our home before one another. My brother finished first because he began before me. He was sweating like a midsummer's day, for he rushed and quickly finished my mom workout standards. "I'm going to beat you home punk!" He cried out while riding away. I was barely beginning mounting my perfect bike that I received for my birthday. I rode right behind him, like a disgruntle driver tailgating a vehicle in front of them as a sign of being in a rush. I was determined to beat him in our race for our Nintendo. We were arriving at the corner of our street, he was sure that he had beaten me, and I was sure of defeat. I heard a screech, and a loud thud, and a CRASH! I looked at my brother ahead of me. He had lost control of his bike and had crashed into our neighbor's car. "Waa-haa!" I heard him cry. Balling as if a bowl of onions had been placed before him. I past him by and cruel as I was I laughed demonically at him for I had accomplished victory. 15 minutes later after I had arrived home he walked in, sniffling and whimpering, with my neighbor whose car he hit beside him. “You need to be more careful from now on okay. I don’t want to hear my car get hit again, or hear you crash for that matter.” He left smiling, and once he left I started snickering. I was like a hyena who laughed at anything possible, but without the excessiveness of the laughter. “Shut up Erik!” he cried out, almost yelling. My neighbor still recalls to this day that situation. He tells us that he and his wife were just watching a movie together when they heard a crash. He told us that he looked out the window and yelled out to his wife, “It’s the twins again, but this time he ran into the car!” He told us that he and his wife were laughing at this time. But my brother’s bike lived to tell the tale and lived to risk my brother’s life once more.

Now, in my situation, it took place on the same street, but a different situation. It was a Saturday afternoon, and my brother and I were anxiously waiting for the clock to hit 9:30, for that was the time my mom had set until we could head on outside to play. We were becoming impatient, as if we were at an airport waiting to be boarded and running late to a family reunion in Georgia. 9:30! Finally it had come. My brother and I rushed outside and didn’t look back, we grabbed our bikes and strode off into our street. What a beautiful day, the sun was shining, the plants were green and full of color, and my neighbor’s car in the corner still had that dent from my brother. An hour had passed and we were growing weary of only riding around our block and around a two block diameter from where we lived, that was my mother’s rule. As I grew more and more fatigued at what we were doing, I devised a new game to play, but that was the decision that marked me for this force called death. I compromised with my brother a little on this new activity, and we both agreed to do it. We decided to have a little bit fun and have a couple of races. We were totally breaking many of my Mother’s rules but also rule number one, “Never try to speed on your bikes boys! You might crash or lose control or something like that,” she told us as we took off on our new bikes for the first time. But, today, that rule would be broken. “On your marks. Get set. GO,” and my brother and I were off to the races. We were having so much fun that some of the other neighbor kids witnessed what we were doing and decided to join in on this fun. We spent about another hour doing this, and it didn’t seem that it would stop any time soon. But, the kids grew fatigued and all decided to head on home, plus it was about 90 degrees out, but we didn’t care one bit. “On your marks. Get set. GO!” We were off once more, but what I didn’t know, was that this race might just be my last! It was Erik in the lead, my brother trailing just behind him. My brother pulled ahead, but Erik just on his tail. OH! Erik just took the lead with this last push to the finish line. Erik has this race in the bag ladies and gentlemen. He’s going, going………….MUNCHED IT! “Oh my god, what just happened?” I thought to myself. I don’t know how it happened, but it did. My brother told me that I had lost control of the bike because of the excessive speeds we were reaching. I just sat their, contemplating on whether or not to get up. I looked around me, I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, none of my body parts lying about. “I think I’m okay,” I said to myself. But there it was, the sight that began my horrific state that followed. The side of my knee had been slashed. As I fell down to earth from the heights of my bike, my knee had scraped the edge of the fire hydrant that had been sticking out, but at the time I believed that I had been impaled. “Oh my god! My knee, it’s bleeding.” At that moment, I witnessed blood trickling from my battle wound. “OH MY GOD! I’M GOING TO DIE!” My blood was escaping from my body. The cement I was laying on had no right to have my blood droplets splatter upon it. “What’s that?” I looked at my wound, A BONE! Oh my god! My bone was sticking out. “Oh my god. My bone is sticking out,” I cried out and hollered, howling like a howler monkey finding a mate. But what I was to find out later on was that it was only a rock that had been lodged in my severed knee. My brother came cycling towards me. “Get up Erik!” He told me. “My bone Julio. It’s sticking out! I can see my bone!” I cried. “Stop lying stupid. I’m going to tell mom on you.” He replied. How could he possibly think that was lying to him? At this time he strode off to our house, leaving me to fend for myself. I just sat there, crying, wondering what was to happen to me, and thinking that these were my last moments in life. I slowly got up from the curb and hoped on one leg towards my house. “Am I going to make it? Do I have to end it now? What is my mom going to do to me.” All these thought and more ran through my head as I neared my home. I crept the front door open just slightly, for cautionary purposes. I witnessed no one. I tip toes through our threshold and into the kitchen. I tore a napkin from its roll, soaked it in water, and lightly dabbed my abrasion. To my amazement, my “bone” fell from my wound and fell upon the floor. A rock. A rock was to blame for my bone incident. I felt dim-witted now knowing that a rock confused me for my bone. I slightly and gently rubbed the napkin across my cut over and over again. My mom found out later on during the day, but I told her that I was trying to get onto my bike and fell that way. She gave me a questioning gaze, but went on with her business. I also yelled at my brother and gave him a few light blows to his forearm for leaving me, but I forgave him the next day. Death had a hit on me, but I didn’t let him take me. After that, we were to never race again.