When I knew.
Throughout my childhood, I was always known as the one who'd "do anything." I was fearless. Unafraid. Arrogant, even. I was the first one to swing out on the frayed rope over the hole of muddy water. The first one to lay her pennies on the nearby train tracks (and always the last to leave before the train zoomed by). I took dares by the dozen. Protected my friends. And I always managed to come home with my hair as neatly styled as it had been, my clothes in place, and my face cleaned of any traces of dirt. Mother would've had it no other way. (I had stashes of extra clothes and cleaning supplies hidden all over the grounds of our estate.)
Not much has changed since then, dear diary. I still think I can do anything, and if I doubt it in the slighest, I push the envelope until it bulges and almost rips. I learned the value of tempering my arrogance during our last mission. That doesn't mean I won't jump at the next opportunity to risk my own neck for some hairbrained scheme that I (or my team) comes up with. It just means I might...pause before doing so.
But there was a specific moment when I realized that my life would forever be about almost dying. For that's what we're doing, heart of my heart, isn't it? Yes. We're alive. But every day we live, we edge treacherously close to our death. Why not walk that tightrope? Why not challenge it? Why not live through touching death? Strange words, I know...especially for someone as young as I am. But like I said. There was a moment that I knew that's how it would be.
I was 12. It was summer. And that week had been particularly hot and muggy (though heat and mugginess are quite typical for us Georgians). I was sitting on our old front porch with my best friend, Misty. We were drinking lemonade and weaving magnolias into crowns for each other to wear to the Magnolia Festival that evening. Each of us let out occasional giggles as we discussed which boys we would or would not be dancing with that evening (I was an early bloomer, remember?).
And then I heard an odd sound. It was some sort of a mixture between sandpaper rubbing together and air being released through a small pressure valve. Hissing. Rattling. I saw it then, rearing up mere inches from Misty's exposed ankle. Without thinking, I shoved her out of the way as it was striking and winced as its fangs sunk deep into my arm. And then my wince bubbled up into my throat as I let out a strangled scream. It was still embedded in my arm, its beady eyes glaring hatred at me. With a sneer, I wrapped my other hand around its cold, muscular body and tore it out, flinging droplets of blood across the porch. I smashed the snake again, and again, slamming its head into the wooden floor planks...until all that remained was a pinkish mass of gore.
The venom took its effect quickly, and the last thought I remember having is..."Does Misty know how to suck?"
Vulgar even then, dear diary. Though I didn't know it. The point is, I risked my life for her. I continue to risk my life today for others like Misty...and others who I don't know.
I just hope I don't have to face a snake in this lifetime. Ever. Again.
Not much has changed since then, dear diary. I still think I can do anything, and if I doubt it in the slighest, I push the envelope until it bulges and almost rips. I learned the value of tempering my arrogance during our last mission. That doesn't mean I won't jump at the next opportunity to risk my own neck for some hairbrained scheme that I (or my team) comes up with. It just means I might...pause before doing so.
But there was a specific moment when I realized that my life would forever be about almost dying. For that's what we're doing, heart of my heart, isn't it? Yes. We're alive. But every day we live, we edge treacherously close to our death. Why not walk that tightrope? Why not challenge it? Why not live through touching death? Strange words, I know...especially for someone as young as I am. But like I said. There was a moment that I knew that's how it would be.
I was 12. It was summer. And that week had been particularly hot and muggy (though heat and mugginess are quite typical for us Georgians). I was sitting on our old front porch with my best friend, Misty. We were drinking lemonade and weaving magnolias into crowns for each other to wear to the Magnolia Festival that evening. Each of us let out occasional giggles as we discussed which boys we would or would not be dancing with that evening (I was an early bloomer, remember?).
And then I heard an odd sound. It was some sort of a mixture between sandpaper rubbing together and air being released through a small pressure valve. Hissing. Rattling. I saw it then, rearing up mere inches from Misty's exposed ankle. Without thinking, I shoved her out of the way as it was striking and winced as its fangs sunk deep into my arm. And then my wince bubbled up into my throat as I let out a strangled scream. It was still embedded in my arm, its beady eyes glaring hatred at me. With a sneer, I wrapped my other hand around its cold, muscular body and tore it out, flinging droplets of blood across the porch. I smashed the snake again, and again, slamming its head into the wooden floor planks...until all that remained was a pinkish mass of gore.
The venom took its effect quickly, and the last thought I remember having is..."Does Misty know how to suck?"
Vulgar even then, dear diary. Though I didn't know it. The point is, I risked my life for her. I continue to risk my life today for others like Misty...and others who I don't know.
I just hope I don't have to face a snake in this lifetime. Ever. Again.
posted by Sari Mitchell at 6:45 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home