On a warm day in the summer of 2005, the sky was suffocating, and the clouds were like marshmallows floating in the sky. I lived in a lousy town where there weren’t many activities to do, but riding my bike around my neighborhood was one of my favorites. I rode my blue bike through the stone alley by my little red, brick house. Wanting to make a splash, I rode my bike through a large, murky puddle. Crash! All of a sudden, the bike fell over on its side, and I dove into the rough, grey stones of the alley by my house.

“Mom! Mom, help!” I screamed in my loudest ten-year-old voice as I felt a sharp, stinging pain from my left knee. I screamed so loudly that it was heard all around the world, and my mom ran outside and helped me into the house. She ordered me to go to the bathroom, so she could clean out the cuts on my knee; but when she took a closer look at it, she looked worried.

“What’s wrong?” I questioned.

“Get in the car,” my mom answered. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“Okay,” I sobbed as I limped to the car, as the salty tears ran down my face. As I rode in the car on the way to the hospital, I glanced down at my knee and saw a huge red, bloody mess, and rocks were pushed underneath the skin of my knee.

My mom and I finally arrived at the hospital, and she took me straight to the E.R. From there a nurse took me to a room where a doctor examined my knee. The doctor, who was as tall as a tree, came in and talked my mom through the procedure of what was going to happen; however, I couldn’t focus on what he was saying and could only hear his muffled voice.

After the doctor put antibiotics on the cut and removed the stones with tweezers from under the skin on my knee, he explained to me that he would have to numb my knee to give me stitches.  I don’t want to do this! I do not want to do this! I thought to myself. I was frightened because I had never had stitches before or even been in an emergency room. “Here,” my mom began, “take my hand.” My mom held out her hand for me to hold while the doctor stitched up the cut with a needle and string. I ended up getting seven stitches, but getting the stitches wasn’t as bad as I thought it would have been; I could only feel the tugging on me knee whenever the doctor would pull the needle and string through.

Finally finished and wrapping my knee up, the doctor sent me on my way. I was glad to have had my mom there for me to take care of me when I was injured and scared. I am now left with an ugly scar on my left knee to remind me of the time I wrecked my bike.