The biggest story of my life would probably be when I met my boyfriend in real life for the first time. But that epicness was more internal, probably not that exciting to other people, and it's too personal to explain anyway.
Come to think of it, I have a few interesting stories I could tell. I'll just write one now, a bad one. It's a bit gruesome, so be warned. I haven't gone over this and edited it, so this isn't the extent of my writing abilities.
When my brother smoked a lot of pot, he used to get very bad mood swings while off of it. He would get angry easily and throw things and yell at people. At this time, he was about 16 and I was 18. One night, I was upstairs on my computer, talking on MSN. I heard an argument begin to erupt downstairs as voices were raised. A few moments later, I heard the sound of glass breaking, a moment of silence, and then my brother yelling with this urgency that told me something was very wrong, "Oh my god, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" I heard my mom say "what?" and a few seconds later she screamed. I sat, paralyzed, terrified, as the commotion downstairs built up.
For some reason I was picturing that he was dying, that something terrible had happened, that he was impaled or stabbed himself or something. My mom yelled my name and told me to "get one of dad's ties from upstairs."
I still had no idea what was going on or why she would need a tie, but rushed to do this, heart pounding. I had no idea where my dad's ties were, and went through drawers, unable to find them. I yelled to my mom that I couldn't find them. She told me to get one of dad's shirts instead, so I grabbed the first shirt I could find and tossed it downstairs to where they were.
She had also told me to call the cops, so I had picked up the phone and tried to dial, but realized my dad was already on the phone with them.
As I approached the stair railing, I could see drops of blood on the walls, high up. This increased my fear and I was sure he must be dying. It felt surreal, like it couldn’t be happening and I didn’t want it to be happening.
I got downstairs and saw that the source of the problem was his wrist. My mom was tending to my brother, who was leaning against the wall. She had the shirt wrapped around his arm, and it was soaked in blood. I was told that he had punched through an interior glass door, and while withdrawing his hand, cut his wrist.
He feared that he was going to die, and kept saying "I don't want to die" to my mom. My mom assured him that he'd be fine. (Later, she confessed that she was fearing for his life). He complained that his hand felt numb, that he couldn’t feel it. Soon, the ambulance got there and took the three of them away.
I stayed at home, walking around the wreckage, with shattered glass and blood everywhere. It really was everywhere. A large amount of it on the floor where he had been standing, blood smeared where he and my mom had been leaning against the wall, and drops of blood scattered on the walls at surprising heights. (I make it sound like more blood than it was. The blood was mostly smeared, there were not really any ‘puddles’ of it. It probably wouldn’t have been that great in volume.) The floor and walls of the house were white, so it was quite a contrast.
He had severed a main artery (obviously) and 14 tendons, so he could not move his right hand at all. He immediately underwent surgery, and now he's fine. He had to go to physical therapy, as the nerves gradually reassigned themselves to parts of his brain so that he could move his hand again. He gained full function of his hand in about a year.
I later found out that the argument had been over something stupid. My dad had been unmatting my dog's hair with a sharp dog comb, and had refused my brother to try using it on the dog when he asked because my dad didn't want him handling the sharp object around the dog. (Kind of ironic, actually.)
From then on, my brother's rages continued, and were even increased because of the frustration he was under at not being able to use his right hand. My mom and I, and my dad to a lesser extent, were traumatized. Every time he broke out into a rage and started throwing things, my heart would pound and I'd fear, irrationally, that he would get hurt again or cause some other destruction. It wasn't a conscious, rational fear. I realized that it was a one-time thing that wasn't likely to happen again, but still felt intense fear. My mom expressed similar feelings. I think she was a lot worse. She feared anything made of glass for a long time after that. Even now, I still feel a lot more fear than I would have before that event in response to people going into rages.
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