My Bloody Nose

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Added: Wed. Jun 17, 2009 12:30am
Posted in: Writing

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When I was about 12, my brother, Mitch, gave me a bloody nose. There are those in the family who may say I deserved it, but I know better. I came out the back door of our house one warm, beautiful afternoon and he was lying in wait – his fist came out of nowhere and struck my fragile skin. There are those who may say that I had tormented him for weeks, and that his anger had built up, but that is so not true. Here’s the real story: I was a sweet, dainty little thing, and he was, well, a boy – doesn’t that pretty much sum it up? He was all about sweat and dirt. I, however,  was all sweetness and light; in fact, I had a very sunny disposition. In short, I never bothered anyone – my long, thin, fingers were only used for violin playing (never hitting!), and my sweet, perfectly shaped  mouth was never heard to utter a bad word. I was a true joy to my mother and father.  I spent my days curled up in an overstuffed chair reading good books on virtuous subjects such as Little Women. Other times I could be found sitting on the front porch step, quietly contemplating life while I sipped a pleasant fruity tea. I was always courteous to our neighbors; especially the elderly ones. I was known to call out “Good Morning, Mrs. Cribbs” and “How are you today Mr. Jones?” as I smiled sweetly. I even curtsied when  I was standing up, making sure to fan my skirt out on both sides while being careful not to wrinkle it even a tad. I was  especially fond of wearing crisply starched white lace collars that framed my angelic face and complemented my porcelain skin.  One of my favorite pastimes was to skip through our lovely flower garden with my sweet straw basket topped with a pale pink bow. I stopped often to pick bright yellow daisies and glorious roses of all colors as I watched the many-hued butterflies fluttering amongst the leaves. Now, however, at the age of 12, I had stopped exhibiting an over-abundance of gaiety – I was reserved and, well, lady-like. You can only imagine how being hit by my bully of a brother made me feel – I was, well, totally violated and I experienced an extreme loss of dignity.

 

And,  now, for the rest of the story . . . Time to cut the BS – I was a brat - a skinny, scraggly-haired first-class brat! I punched, kicked, and slapped; in fact, my buzzwords were conquer and kill. It was hit or be hit and I wasn’t about to be on the losing end of a good fight. I read Mad magazine, watched soap operas, drank gallons of sweet iced tea, and hung upside down in a hickory tree with a dress on. I wore saddle oxfords with bobby socks, and I stuffed my bra with toilet paper. I also spent time in a large mulberry tree throwing berries at other kids. I stole a baby duck when I was about five and I lusted after Frankie Avalon when I was 13. Otherwise, the story I told above is all true.