It was recess, I was eight, and I was running across the playground, which at that school was a pretty unforgiving tarmac. An older boy, also running, slammed into me and I hit the ground face-first.
I remember sitting up, hand over my nose, blood dripping through my fingers, and making the conscious decision to scream. The boy, who could not have been more than twelve, grabbed me under my armpits and ran with me as fast as he could to the school nurse while I howled.
After that I don’t remember too much, not because I passed out, but because it was a long time ago, and I was probably making more of a scene than the whole thing warranted. My screams were panic at the amount of blood and the fact that it was my face that got hurt. I certainly wasn’t angry. I didn’t blame the boy, who I knew hadn’t run into me on purpose.
The doctor who saw me later made some comment about a break, but not one that would be obvious. I had a slight bend that might not have been there before, but didn’t look like a broken nose.
Later I felt kind of bad about it, because every time that boy saw me afterwards he looked embarrased and a little scared.
Pam Troy 