My dad held a towel on my hands and applied as much pressure as I would allow. The blood oozed out from under the hand towel and was a deep red and dripped down my fingers. I pulled away from the towel with shaky hands and raised my shirt to make sure I wasn’t bleeding there too, because it ached like it had been burnt. The tears came streaming down my eyes, making it too hard to tell if I was scratched, but I knew there wasn’t any blood. Wrapping my shaking fingers back into the towel my dad pulled my trembling hands back in towards the sink. My Aunt Doreen came in and tried to help my dad clean up my wounds.  They pulled out the hydrogen peroxide, causing my sobs to become louder. I didn’t understand what they were doing just that it was going to hurt. There was no giving me a choice though and firmly my dad gripped my hand as he pulled it over the sink. The cool liquid rolled down my hands, fizzing and sizzling as it hit open wounds.
A memory kept coming back of me lying on the ground, head down towards the dirt. My arms were stretched out ahead of me and my legs thrown sloppily behind. It didn’t seem realistic. 
I tried to pull my hand away from the peroxide, and my dad gently pulled it back over the sink. Tears were still flowing, but the sobbing had been subdued to hiccups. He kept pouring, and my memory kept growing.
  Arms outstretched, the sky expanded over me. The deep hues would have been gorgeous if you were able to focus on that. But the running dirt bike on the ground was too distracting. That, plus the pulsing running through my body toward my hands, and the aching sensation on my stomach continued to divert me. My helmet was hot and kind of sweaty, but my mind was too blank to take it off. My neck burned with the same sort of feeling that my front half did. Looking beside me, I saw part of the dirt bike, the handle I think, and some other parts scattered across the old corn field. The path that the dirt bike had traveled flattened the corn stalk stubs to the ground, as did my body as I was dragged behind it. I followed the paths back to the beginning where I initially crashed the dirt bike. Thrown all over the ground was the barbed wire fence and the metal post lying on the ground. I didn’t think I hit the post, but I had knocked it over.
“Do you think she’s going to need stitches?” I heard my mom ask as she came into the bathroom.  She thought I hadn’t heard her, but at the sound of it my whole body stiffened. There was no way I wanted to get stitches, but more importantly I didn’t want a needle going through my hands. I didn’t know what really happened when you got stitches at the time, so that just made it scarier.
“I think she’ll be okay without them, it’s not too deep just a superficial cut,” my dad piped in. I was ever so grateful for those words.  The next half hour was spent looking for bandages that would stay on my hands, and then actually bandaging them up.
We went back to my grandma’s house that day, and changed the bandages a couple more times before removing them for good. To this day, I don’t have any scars from the barbed wire fence I hit, and only a memory of why I shouldn't ride dirt bikes. I don’t think about the wounds, rather I think about how my dad was able to love on me and keep me as calm as possible, even though I was so upset. I hope that when my children wreck their motorcycle, I’ll be able to be as calm, cool, and collected as he was.