Baylee Hayes

Mrs. Rutan
Advanced Literature
13 March 2013
Between the Hinges

I shouldnt have gotten out of bed that morning. I shouldnt have gone to school. I shouldnt
have lied and said I had to go to the bathroom. I shouldnt have gotten scared when someone came
down the hallway. I shouldve have opened that door. I shouldnt have this scar.

If I were to give someone two thumbs up, theyd probably be curious to why one of my thumbs
looks different from the other but maybe the question didnt come up like that. Maybe someone was
looking at my freshly painted nails and my oddly-shaped thumb intimidated them. My thumb was short,
fat, and topped with an uneven and discolored nail while a jagged scar wrapped around the whole thing
as if it was the only thing holding it together.
They asked things like, what did you do to your thumb, and I replied with, I chopped my
thumb off in a door.
Okay, so I didnt exactly chop my thumb off in a door I mean I did, but theres more to it. Its
just easier to tell people that way.

It was the beginning of October and my fifth grade year. The second week of middle school
started and so did the awkward transistion from the fake beginning with rules and expectations into the
everyday routine. I was sitting in Mrs. Thayers Englinsh class. My hiar was fastened into two
symmetrical braids that hung down to the sides of my face. I was sick of the tedious cursive practice, so
my green cargo pants stood up and my orange hooded shirt followed. Cautiously, due to the
unfamiliarity of everything, I asked for permission to go to the bathroom, grabbed the pink hall pass,
and was on my way.
I sauntered down the hallway, waiting for time to slowly drag by. I made it almost half of the
length down the hallway until a fresh face of authority followed behind.
Shes on to me. She knows Im not going to the bathroom. Its the beginning of a new school year
and Im already going to get into trouble My moms going to kill me.
Immediately I turned to the bathroom and acted with purpose. I shoved open the cold, heavy, black
metal door and held it open for the face behind me. She mustve known what was going to happen next,
because when I turned around she wasnt there.
The door closed with a loud thud and a pain shot through my hand. The discomfort traveled
through my veins until my entire arm was affected.
I have the worst luck ever, what idiot shuts their finger in the door?
As I opened the door, the red warmth trickled down my hand. Not only did I somehow manage
to shut my thumb in the door, but the door closed so hard it cut through my flesh and bones. I stood
there as more and more of my hand got hot.
My moms really going to kill me now
I didnt want to move because I thought the tip of my thumb would become unattached if I even
took a step. As carefully as I could, I walked through the door that a few moments ago disembodied my
thumb. Once I was assured that it wouldnt come off, I nearly sprinted down the hallway with my good
hand cupped around the wound.
Wait, wheres the office? Do I even go to the office? Do I go tell my teacher? Wheres her
classroom even at? Which way did I come from? OMG WHHHHHHHHHYYYYyyy!??!
The hysteria of the situation clouded my thinking and numbed the pain. I couldnt feel any of my
fingers anymore. Frantically, I ran room to room looking for a door with Mrs. Thayer bulleted to the
front of it. I desperately opened the door and like a child telling his mom about the vase he just broke, I
reluctantly entered the room. Hiding my thumb on the other side of where she was I explained myself.
Hm Mrs. Thayer? I kind of shut my thumb in a door and its I offered my hand as proof and
all the color from her face drained into my blood-covered hand.
WHY DIDNT YOU GO TO THE OFFICE? How did you Her voice trailed off as she nervously
began wrapping Kleenex around the gash and the white tissue turned red as soon as they were secured.
On our walk down she made me tell her everything that happened so I told her, I was going to
the bathroom and held a door for someone who never showed up and somehow my thumb got stuck
between the hinges, (of course I left out the part that I never actually had to go to the bathroom).
She told the secretaries what happened and was forced to fill out an accident report while the
old ladies flocked me with questions.
Howd you manage to do that sweetie?
I am not your sweetie.
Would you like some gumdrops?
OMG YES!!
What about water or something to drink?
They literally can read my mind
Good idea! We might have Coke in the back still.
Maybe I should get hurt more often.
Even though I wanted everything they offered me, I politely declined and took a seat on the
hard wooden chair. I set my hand on my leg, and wanted my mom to get there as soon as she could. The
time passed even slower than it did when I wandered the hallway. It seemed like hours passed before
my mom got there. I didnt even bother look at my hand until she walked inside the office, and when I
did I realized it was soaked through my makeshift Band-Aid, and my vomit-green pants.
My mom tried to tug away the soaked tissue, but my skin started to come with it. Once she
realized the Kleenex was going to have to stay wrapped around my hand we hurried off and went to the
hospital. I sat on the harsh bed and tried to talk my nurse into using a type of superglue that held my cut
together.
This is too severe of a wound for glue dear.
Im so over this.
I waited for the doctor to come in and sew stitches just like I have once before on my other
hand. I knew what was going to happen next and I just wanted everything to be over.
Im numbing your thumb; it wont hurt a single bit, just a poke.
Whatever old man, you have to say that
I felt the poke that was more like getting stabbed with a knife, and that knife didnt numb
anything. I still felt my skin getting zipped up. I felt every jab, prick, and prod. I felt everything. The
whole time I turned facing the wall counting the seconds until he was done and I could go home.
As soon as its all healed up and the stitches come out, youre thumb nail will grow back and
youll just have a little scar.
Everybody has scars. The size, color, and shape might be different but each scar has its own
story to tell. A story of pain that left its mark, the mistake or flaw, because there are no scars made with
joy. Theyre sort of a life lesson from the past, teaching you to never make the same mistake twice.







I chopped my thumb off in a door.