Running With Scissors

    Gripping the summer air in my palms, I visualized my flight down the sullied dirt path blistered with dead leaves and boney tree roots. I could see myself slipping through the drained and dried creek, downhill toward the edge of the woods. Continuing the race in my mind, I sprang from the end of the tree line, dashing through the grassy back yard, and then onto the third step of the back-porch staircase... my podium... my finale. I was ready for this race. I had been anticipated it all morning; heck… I suggested it. Another chance to defeat my elder brothers at a game or race was seconds from beginning – I was about to explode. As my imagination soared back into my opening eyes, I swallowed two deep breaths. I dropped my head as my rivals drew quite. Tense air floated between the twisted vines that choked the tree limbs above my head and beneath the woodland canopy. Leaves swayed anxiously in waiting.

    Dirt spit from the souls of my ripped sneakers as I screwed my foot into the dusty surface. Silence rang… then a restless proverbial voice awoke the beginning of the count, "READY!" - I detonated to the left from my stronghold alongside a bare tree trunk. As the youngest of the boys, I had no need to hear the words, ‘set,’ or ‘go for that matter. My loyalty lies within my own victory. Shadows of sprinters exploded behind me in every direction, screaming what I’m sure were obscenities – I could only laugh as their paths were a mere gaffe compared to my route of unrivaled perfection. An engine screamed to my back and I stole a look from over my shoulder to spot both my elder brothers; one ripping down the leveled pathway on the dirt caked three-wheeler; and mind-numbingly, the other pacing hot on my tail. My speech was flooded with curses at the thought of my brother thieving my course, my unrivaled route. I pulsed on, and spat into the air in hopes of it hitting his face. As my bastard red-headed brother caught up to my side, I mustered all of the grit left on my teeth and raced on through the dried creek bed. Gripping onto a tree limb, I ramped over the embankment with ease. I could hear my brother struggling and sinking into the disappearing edge of falling rock along the creek. I smiled with insanity and I reestablished my lead. The clearing toward the finish was just beyond the shadow of evergreens bent in a line along the woods. My brother’s yelling, sounding further in distance every second, only made me run faster. Yearning to rub in my inevitable victory, I turned my face toward my back, tongue extended with a mockery of unabashed loathing that sent me into darkness…
    Shaken into consciousness, I began to feel my body strewn about on a pillow of tree roots and itchy ground. My brother’s screams from above my body were painstakingly loud. I cringed. Lights came into focus, and my brother’s countenance was hazy, at best. Somewhere, I could make out the sounds of celebrating… and slow enough; the reality of defeat sank in. I searched for reason and blame, until abruptly, pain entered into my arousing body… Awakened with fear, I came to realize my breath, too, was knocked from my lungs. All of my realized agony was relayed in gasps and howls for breath. As I gained a few breaths and an ounce of composure, I met my brother’s questioning eyes… “You okay? You ran straight into the fence, ya idiot!”
    With groans like that of an old man, I sat up and stared out at the fence that appeared a mile away. Realizing the barbed wire etched onto the multiple rungs of fencing, I lifted my shirt to see a rain of bubbling and bloody holes in my chest and stomach. Each, seemingly large, barbed bullet hole was connected with red lines, slit with cuts scattered along. As my brother described it to me, “you were flying at the fence like a maniac with your tongue out, and after you hit the fence it threw you back 5 yards onto one of the trees and you were out like a light.”
Squeezing my shirt onto my wounds, I knowingly questioned, “My tongue was out?”
With a laugh he answered, “Yea, I was screaming about the fence on the tree line the whole time, part of the reason I followed you down here.”
Realizing my brother’s warnings I denied ever hearing him…

    Resting on my brother’s arm, we walked back to the house my shirt bloodied with defeat. My brother assured me I’d live, and as he was the proud owner of 4 stitched head scars, I trusted his judgment. As I limped beneath his helping arms, I vaguely remember a sense of guilt and embarrassment for my actions… and even some pride for the concern of my elder brother.  Mom said, "I'dve been safer running with scissors than with such recklessness."  In my most disparaging and embarrassing memories, I seem to find some of my most influential childhood lessons – this one was no exception.