The Monster It was a warm, Hawaiian February day in Mrs. Lomire’s second grade class, and we had been working on an art project that included a great deal of crayons and coloring. I was never the best artist in the class, so this task did not completely captivate me, but I was in quite a playful mood and was finding it quite easy to have fun. During this time Ryan Wong had excused himself to go to the bathroom, and when Ryan returned, there was a knock on the door; I jumped up from my desk, eager to get away from my drawing, and rushed to the door. I peered through the window and there was Ryan, staring at the thick wooden door, a blank expression on his face. “Well I might as well have some fun with him,” I thought. I decided I would startle him. So I waited a couple seconds to add to the suspense and then flung the door open and yelled, “BAHH!” But the door did not open all the way. It began to open, and then with a sudden thud it stopped all together as it connected with something. I pushed the door open the rest of the way to reveal Ryan, standing in the doorway, a look of shock on his face. The shock quickly transformed into pain and Ryan gave out a shrill scream that rent the air. I looked down and saw that the big toe on his left foot was bleeding. The door had torn the nail from the flesh and in its place was a bunch of wet, bloody flesh that looked something like raw hamburger. I was horrified. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” I pleaded. “Are you ok?” Stupid question. It was obvious Ryan could no longer hear me or anyone else. He could only feel pain.
His eyes, red like volcanoes, were erupting with warm, salty tears that were cascading down his cheeks and into the corners of his mouth. His nose was runny, and there was a trail of clear mucus creeping down from his left naval cavity. His blaring howls sent shivers down my spine. Yet I still nervously extended my arm to Ryan and placed it on his shoulder. “Are you ok?” I asked again. Stupid question. Ryan pulled away and his cries escalated. Finally Ryan’s screams attracted the attention of the class and, Mrs. Lomire rushed over to comfort him. She quickly embraced him and told him to hush. She would call the health center and they would come and help. As Mrs. Lomire hugged Ryan, I stood there, alone, watching. Nothing embraced me but the disgusted lowers (I looked lowers up. I believe that it can also be spelled lours if that helps. I thought it was good because it was kind of a harsh look of disgust.) of my classmates. As Ryan began to regain control over himself, he started to calm down. His tears turned to sniffles and the wailing transformed into deep, harsh sobs. With each desperate gasp of air Ryan took, I felt a knife slide into my stomach. This was not the first time I had hurt a classmate. It was second grade and I was easily the biggest and the tallest of all my 150 classmates. It seemed hard to go a week with out pushing someone too hard during a game of tag or knocking someone over while playing basketball. I never tried to hurt people, but everyone else was just so fragile. After hurting someone I always felt more and more terrible each time, but this was different. It was worse. I had not only made my classmate cry, but I had caused his flesh to be torn and
to bleed. I was a monster. I was incapable of friendly relationships for the fear of hurting the people I cared about. Although I stood just 5 feet from Ryan and Mrs. Lomire, but I felt worlds away. I felt that I did not belong. Ryan’s toe eventually healed; and even before then he forgave me, but I’m not sure that I ever forgave myself. I will always remember that day, Ryan’s cries, and his raw bloody toe. He may forget, but I will not.