Scar stories: Knuckles

It happened on my wedding day.  I was to marry my Beloved, and his name was Kevin. He was planning on marrying his best friend, Avery, but I asked him first.  The ceremony was short and quaint, as it took place during recess and there were countless other activities to fit into that short period of time.  After we got married I decided that we had to be together forever, or until the end of recess, whichever one came first.  He shrugged, then ran off to where the other boys were congregated around a sewage drain and throwing sticks and rocks into it.  In my hurry I tripped and my left side beared most of the impact.  A jagged line of blood ran along the knuckles of my middle, ring and pinky fingers.  Instantly I was bawling and a teacher's aide rushed over to see what had happened; my husband only briefly looked up before resuming his work.  I decided then that the marriage was off and I would never wed again.

* * * * *

The above story is almost entirely fabricated from my imagination.  To this day I have one little scar on each of the three affected knuckles, but they are only visible if I point them out.  They are hidden by the folds of my skin, and only when I make a fist are the shiny white parts barely discernable.  The fingers of my left hand work fine-- maybe even better than the ones in my right hand, since I've been playing the violin for most of my life.

I have absolutely no recollection as to how I got these scars.  I've had them for as long as I can remember; in my first school picture the fresh scabby scars are visible and I was three or four years old then.  All I know is what my mother told me: that when she came to pick me up my face was still bloated from crying and I winced at any attempt to move the fingers on my left hand.  It's slightly unsettling, reflecting on the fact that I can't remember the event that literally left me scarred for life. 

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