I hated the Boy Scouts. Utterly. Sure, I said it already before. It bears repeating. I was 15 and stuck being Senior Patrol Leader. Didn’t want it, didn’t ask for it and got told, “Tough, you’re it.” by my step-father and the Scoutmaster. No one else had the required rank or age at that point in time and it was time to shift to someone else. I balked, naturally. For all the good it did me.
We were meeting at some elementary school or another. Don’t remember the name of the place. I do remember that Melissa was with us on one particular night. She was probably 7 or 8. My memory is getting fuzzy with age. But not about what happened.
She had gone to the girl’s bathroom, as is only natural, her being a girl and all. Next thing I knew, a couple of the younger boys were screwing around in there. I was livid! Someone told me what was up and I roared down the hallway to rescue my little sister from the idiots. Someone held open the bathroom door and I grabbed the first one by the collar and hauled him out. I had wrapped my left hand around the doorjamb to get better leverage for pulling a struggling buffoon out of the girl’s restroom. Tossed him to the side and snagged the second baboon. Melissa came out, a bit shaken but ok.
The guy holding the door let go. Didn’t think anything of it until I tried to walk away. Didn’t go far. My hand was caught. I noticed when I suddenly couldn’t go any further and momentum swung me around to face the very disturbing sight of my fingers disappearing into the space between door and wall. Check that. The non-existent space. I cursed under my breath and opened to the door to release my fingers. It took the skin off the back of my middle, ring and littlest fingers. That is when actual pain happened.
My temper went off like a nuclear detonation at that point. I was in full red-out rage. The pain was intense. Bones are not meant to be compressed like that and having your skin come off isn’t a barrel of monkeys either. I stomped into the cafeteria, swearing fit to blister paint. I took a run at the wall and kicked. The hole I made was impressive.
My stepfather finally got a hold of me and then he saw my hand. I told him what had happened. He took me to Urgent Care immediately. That was another delightful period of time once I got in to a doctor. He looked my hand over carefully and sighed. Blood was coming up under the nails of two fingers and had to be released. Which meant burning a hole down to the nail bed. Fun!
Four shots of Novocain later and he started. Guess what? I could still feel it. And it f-ing HURT. My fingers ended up in those silly metal braces to try to protect them from getting banged around when I moved. The nails turned a deep purple then black over the next couple of days, preparing for peeling off.
Needless to say, the ‘boys’ were extremely careful around my sister from that point and with me. Don’t argue with bathroom doors… they’ll always win, one way or another.