Growing up, me mum was an EMT, a wilderness rescue and town rescue volunteer, and I spent a lot of time learning the ins and outs of the trade myself. Never went up for certs, mind, but I picked up the bits I figured I’d need, told bits and pieces of the Red Cross handbook to sod off, and proceeded to carve myself up fairly vigorously as a kid.

Those stories you hear about running through the barbed wire in Maine farm communities? I’m the poor sausage who ended up holding position on an acquaintance who spiral fractured his femur running a game of commando in the pines out back of our high school – mile upon mile of cross country trails we couldn’t be bothered to actually stay on. Running games, injuries, commonplace.

Mainers are a stoic lot, I’m told. Me, I’m a decorative complainer. Something buggers up my day and I’m all about the cussing away mildly to myself, borrowing the folks in crowd control to see if I got the cyano-acrylate set correctly, and so on.

I have a *lot* of scars, and most of ‘em have stories to go with. Most of those stories are cautionary tales: “Don’t be a bloody idiot.”

Today, I bring you one such story. Allow me to set the scene.

Maine colleges – and I’d imagine most other colleges – have summer experience programs for freshly graduated high-school students. These programs involve hupping up to one’s university of choice, making like the speeches matter, competing in wheel chair races to, “Understand the plight of our diverse handicapped population,” And so forth.

Ironic, since that completion was the last time I saw staff actually handling wheel chairs, even when our exceptionally nifty cerebal palsy student got himself munged up in a snowdrift for a couple hours in the dead of winter.

“A, you appear to be stuck.”
“(censored)”
“Right then.” Ensue grunting. “How much does this thing weigh, anyhow?”
“(censored)”
“Right then.” Ensue accosting fellow students who’ve been looking on with idle curiousity and then walking away… “You, you, and you. Set you books down. Yes, in the snow or I’ll bloody well ensure you daft babbages join A here in a drift…”
“(censored)”

…but I digress. College for high-school students is a publicity wodge, a waste of otherwise decent summer days. I made a friend or two, ate some of the worst food ever, and got a scar…

My roommate for summer experience was a jock of the not-actually-into-education variety. By his sixth hour on campus in summer experience, he’d acquired his second girl friend. I’d found the chem. lab, a pickup volleyball game, and the computer center, and learned that my roommate didn’t have any condoms. He had no clue what to make of a 145 wire bugger like me, didn’t fathom my kinesics or complete lack of interest in his sexual prowess, and appeared desperately interested in either intimidating me or telling me stories of how strong he was.

I wandered back out for more food, a run, and more volleyball until the music started. Block party music, as demonstrated by people who would recognize neither a block nor party even in the face of one, and would probably call the authorities if anyone demonstrated an ounce of passion about anything.

Not amused.

Back to the room. Room’s locked. Silence. Knocking. Silence. Knocking. Silence. My keys, on the table by my bed, taunt me. Knocking. Silence. Walking to trash. Grabbing and folding a sheet of paper. Carding the lock. Decoratively punch swan diving into the bed in frustration. Discovering that the mattress is smaller than the metal frame by way of opening my chin said frame from side to side and liberally splashing most of my belongings with blood.

A gasp. My roommate and his third girlfriend are up against the wall under his blankets. He’s gone stark white, which post coital is quite the appearance. She’s gone flat scared. This isn’t OK. Must re-assure.

“Crap. Sorry, you didn’t answer the door.” Blood on hands. Blood on leg. Blood on my nice clean pillow. “Crap. Sorry, but is this down to the bone?” Poke into wound a bit, walk over to mirror. “One of you mind nabbing a light?” I look over my shoulder. They’ve not moved, though there’s a notable sag to my roommate. “Hey, you don’t look well. Don’t pass out, you’ll cut yourself on the bed.”

This… isn’t working. “Hello? You guys OK?” If they could back *through* the wall, they probably would. I give up on them as a lost cause at this point and simply start talking to myself in the mirror, thanking the happy gods for electric razors. Wander out, traumatize the residence assistant asking if they have butterfly tape, because I want to get to the evening volleyball game. Nab adhesive tape and band-aids instead, leaking into a shirt so I won’t contaminate the hall.

Back to the room. Girl’s gone. There’s a girl shaped dent in the bed, and the entire roommate side of the room is newly disheveled. Roommate’s looking better, so I wander back out, grab a cup for water and some soap, come back into the better light in the room, and debride the paint flecks out of my chin. Somewhere in the post debriding shaving process, finger across wound to keep the fur out, I hear a moan. It’s a delicate bit of work, so without turning, “You OK?” Another moan. Sigh, finish up the shave and line up the edges of the rip.

I hate bed frames. A cut would be civilized. A bed-frame just rips open the skin and calls it a day.

Pad dry the freshly shaved surface and cuss myself out for having forgotten to get scissors. Get scissors, freshly traumatizing the RA. What is it with these non-farm-town people and a little blood, anyhow? Wander back in, note that the roommate’s gone, the roommate’s clothing is gone with the exception of a shoe, and make butterfly tape from adhesive tape, sealing myself up.

That evening there is good food, another run, re-taping, and conversation with someone who doesn’t actually mind the tape and occasional leakage.

A year later, I will learn my roommate had a nervous breakdown, after which he went properly criminally insane and did some plumb stupid something the nature of which I forget. Held up a gas station maybe, or flashed traffic? Something memorable, excepting that I don’t remember.

*shrugs*

So, that’s the story of the chin scar, and here’s a photo to show the damage. It’s not lots, and the chin fur mostly covers it – but I remain to this day utterly stunned that there exist in this world people who don’t simply take injuries in stride. Most of them, I’m sure, look at me and feel much the same degree of stunned right back at me.