The Knife
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It all started on a warm Saturday afternoon. My parents decided that we should go out on the boat that afternoon. So we changed into our swimsuits, got our beach towels, and finally piled into the van for the drive to the cabin. The cabin, where my grandparents live, is where we park our boat. Their house is about a mile from lock and dam fourteen on the Iowa side.
My grandparents were away on a lustrous journey when we arrived. My dad went to fuel the boat, my mom loaded the boat with food for the day, and I went to go whittle on the roof of the garage. I went into the garage and got my filet knife out of my tackle box. Then went around to the back, climbed the fence, and got onto the roof. I had done this several times before and liked this place because it was serene and peaceful.
I took a branch off the great oak tree that stood before me and began carving. Suddenly, the knife slipped off the fresh, smooth, moist wood and sliced into my leg for what seemed like an eternity. It hurt for what seemed like a decade, but was only a few seconds. After I realized what happened, I rushed down off the roof to get my mother. As I was climbing down from the roof, it began to pulse and hurt again. The wound was beginning to bleed profusely from the movement. Luckily, my mother was just leaving the house as I got down from the roof.
“Mom, would you be mad if I cut myself?”
Because of the blood on my finger, she thought I had cut my finger and needed a Band-Aid.
“No, of course not, do you need a Band-Aid?”
I then showed her the great gash on my leg.
“Go into the house while I get your father!”
I went inside and waited
“Lie down