On one warm day in June around 2014, my friend, Beck, and I were hanging out at my house. I can’t remember what we were doing at the time. Probably playing video games or some other form of entertainment that we 10 year olds could muster. It was close to noon, and both of us were getting hungry.

So I said,” Wanna go out and get some Chipotle or something?”

“Sure.” Beck responded.

“Alright.”

The two of us walk upstairs, and I ask my sister. “Hey Anna, do you know where mom is?”

“She’s outside, you idiot.” Anna responded.

“Alright then.” I whispered to Beck, “She’s in a bad mood, noted.”

The two of us walk outside onto my porch, and I called down to my mom, “Mom, can we go out and get some Chipotle? Beck and I are really hungry.”

“What did you say?” My mom called back.

“BECK AND I ARE HUNGRY, CAN WE GET SOME CHIPOTLE?!” I yelled at her.

“Um, no.” Mom said.

“Well what do you recommend?” I responded

“You can make some soup.” She called back.

Now normally this would not have made me mad. But it was about 90 degrees outside and our family had been having soup for about four times a week for three weeks. So I was really done with soup, and I just wanted a Chipotle burrito.

“MOM, CAN WE PLEASE GET CHIPOTLE! WE HAVE HAD SOUP EVERYDAY FOR WEEKS!!” Of course this was a hyperbole, but I wanted to get my point across.

“No we have not. You can make something else though. NO Chipotle!” she responded.

I was so mad I kicked a piece of styrofoam that for some reason was on the ground. Right as I made contact with the styrofoam a shot of pain went through my toe and up my foot.

Just for some background information, at the time of this story I had lived in this house for a little over a year, and my dad was remodeling one of the bathrooms. So what I had assumed, in my rage, was a piece of styrofoam, was actually a piece of broken sink that had been moved out of the bathroom.

“Oh crap!” I yelled

“What, what happened?” Beck asked “Are you ok?”

“Nope.” I grunted out.

I bounced over to a chair and sat down.

Beck called down to my mom. “Mrs. Parks, um, can you come up here?”

My mom ran up the stairs when she saw what happened  she ran inside. When she came out thirty seconds later, cleaning alcohol and bandages in hand, she sat down on the floor and cleaned it up, and put and a bandage on it. During this, it was eerily quiet, I was in so much pain I could not speak even if I wanted to. Mom was quiet in concentration, and Beck was just kind of standing there watching.

Once my mom finished she said,”Let me text my friend a picture of it.”

“What! Why?” I responded

“She’s a nurse she’ll know if you need stitches.”

A couple of minutes later my mom’s friend responded saying that it looked like I would not need stitches but to make sure to keep it clean.

The next morning my mom checked the wound, and she said “It looks worse.”

So later in the day we went to the hospital where I got three stitches in my toe, and a tetanus shot. The rest of the week I could barely walk, and when I did it would really hurt.

As a consequence of my anger, about three days later, at my family's annual trip to Beverly Beach for the Fourth Of July, I could not do many things besides just hang out by the fire. Keeping the wound clean from sand was a huge pain. From this accident I learned the hard way that if you let your emotions take over your body it will end badly for you.