My (wannabe) Harry Potter Scar

The tiny pink scar in the center of my forehead has a special story behind it, one that I proudly remember as the most ridiculous of my life.

It all started one cold rainy evening, the premier of Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. I was a giddy 10 year old who was much too ecstatic to be trusted with any regular daily responsibilities. After all, Legolas, my imaginary elvin lover, would return (complete with shiny long blonde hair and intense action-packed archery moves) and continue to haunt both my day and nighttime dreams. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, to get in the way of this beautiful evening.

My brother and I shoved our most comfy sweatshirts over our necks and pushed for our parents to finished getting dressed so that we could ‘leave already!!’ My dad slowly tied his shoes and grinned as he looked up and told us to go brush out teeth before we left. My brother almost started complaining but I grabbed his sleeve and gave him a look that said, “don’t screw this up.” Levy and I raced up the stairs to my tiny blue bathroom and crudely slopped toothpaste onto our brushes and shoved them into our mouths, brushing as hard and as fast as we could.

Now, this is the part that I can never remember precisely. I can honestly say that all I can remember is my brother making some hilarious joke and my body buckling over with laughter. Laughter like I can never recreate, laughter like I’ve never laughed before, and laughter that exuded a much higher level of energy than what was needed for any human occupation. My body lurched forward and I collided with something cold, sharp, and cruelly numbing.

Everything went black.

I woke up just seconds later to watch a little blue sink fill with warm blood; I quickly realized whose blood it was and calmly asked my brother for a towel. I soaked three washcloths with the blood dripping from a small hole in the direct center of my forehead, the sink head cut deep into my skull and left a great deal of bruises and bloody scabs. My brother was hyperventilating and his pre-puberty screams, had I not been in so much pain, would have caused me to revisit the laughter I had just found so detrimental to my health.

The worse part of that evening was that I couldn’t attend my movie’s premiere. No Lord of the Rings for me. My parents used words like “rest,” and “recuperate” as excuses to keep my inside that on that godforsaken stormy night.

I didn’t care about any of the health problems I would encounter in the next week. I certainly didn’t know I’d have a hematoma and have to be rushed to the hospital. How was I to expect the gash was going to get infected and my whole face was going to swell up? I just wanted to see my movie.

So I threw a huge hissy fit ending with me dramatically blacking out and falling on the floor. My parents carried me to my bed and I had forgotten the whole thing by morning. But my memory of that night still stands out as one of the funniest I can remember.

The next time you’re close enough to see the microscopic pink scar in the middle of my forehead, you’ll know the ridiculous, childish story behind it. After all, what is life without a few stupid mishaps and baby breakdowns?