Broken Glass

Sadie Lange, Contributor

As I look in the mirror, I run my fingers along the faded scar in the middle of my left eyebrow. Almost a year had passed since the day of the incident but the thought of it still makes me shiver. I take a deep breath as the memory floods my mind.

I’d been dreading this day since the beginning of the month—the day of the big test. I woke up, grabbed my glasses, and rushed to school. I trudged into the toffee-smelling classroom to find desks spread apart and classmates chatting in their seats. I sat down as my 3rd grade teacher quieted the class. 

“The math unit test is about to begin.” The teacher said. “Please put away all electronic devices until the test has concluded.”

I tuned out the rest of the speech, fidgeting with my sparkly blue pencil topper, which I purchased from the school store the day before. As the teacher neared my desk with a thick packet of tests in her hands, my heart started to race. It felt like years had passed once the last packet was handed out.

“You may now start the test.” The teacher said.

As my sweaty palms flipped the page, I felt butterflies in my stomach. But once I started solving the first question, all my worries disappeared. 

I was forty minutes in and stuck. I reread question twenty-nine three times but the wording confused me. I decided to ask for help. I looked towards the teacher’s desk watching her grade papers with her deadly red pen. I crossed my fingers as I stood up, pushed in my chair and started walking towards the teacher’s desk. I took two steps, running every possible scenario of my encounter with the teacher in my head. Suddenly I felt a shoe obstructing my path and my head along with my glasses hit the chair in front of me.

I lay on the ground, hearing what seemed like distant screams. Blood covered my hands and my glasses were missing a lens. I freaked out and started searching for the lens, unaware of how much blood was oozing out of my skin. I felt a thin piece of plastic in my hand and began to calm down. I started to comprehend what had happened and the pain hit me like a freight train. I was rushed out of the classroom, leaving a trail of blood behind me. 

I couldn’t pop my glasses lens back into the frame so the hallway looked blurry. The displayed artwork looked like blobs of colors and I couldn’t read more than two feet away. I had my glasses lens in my right hand and I swiftly placed them in my pocket.  When I had arrived at the nurse’s office, I was assured all I would need was a few stitches. The nurse cleaned the gash and gave me a Barbie band-aid. I watched her dial my parent’s number on the landline and calmly explain the situation to them. My pulse began to steady and I relaxed my tense muscles. 

I shake my head vigorously, trying to erase the memory. Still looking in the mirror, I grin. Knowing the past is behind me, I feel relieved. Yet unaware I will be in a similar trauma again.