I have many bruises. In fact, it came to a point once where I thought I had leukemia because all these bruises popped up on my legs like during one whole week. I bruise easily. (When AJ bit me, when I hit my elbow against the desk earlier, when I slammed my knee into the wall, when I fell down into the muddy ground during our acquaintance party… and yes, it’s still there)
I also have scars. The most notable scar I have, though, was earned during the summer before fourth year high school. It’s a dog bite, and is just one purplish brown, scarred, hole behind my left knee. I’m proud of this scar. It makes me feel sort of like Harry Potter. Harry has this lightning shaped scar on his forehead, right, and it well, kind of helped in shaping his destiny. (Goes into a deep, geeky description of how Voldemort, choosing to use the Killing Curse against Harry, gives him the scar which basically just defines the rest of Harry’s life)
My scar is what made me realize that I could be a nurse.
That I should be a nurse.
When Bolt (the rugged, fluffy brown Chow-chow that belong(ed) to my auntie) bit me that summer, I remained strangely calm. I knew what to do. Pressure. Don’t panic. Don’t pull your leg away. Clean the damn wound. And I didn’t even cry.
I usually cry. Like, literally burst into a waterfall, a waterfall that’s as loud as an ambulance. But that time? No. Not at all.
You could say it was my defining moment.
Now, about my bruises. I think they symbolize the fact that I get hurt a lot of times. And it really does take me a while to get over things. (Like this bruise I have had since August 5, that isn’t exactly going away)
On the other hand, they might just be a sign that I’m clumsier than a moose wearing high heels.