Butterfly Scar

by Elliott Fielding

I was lying on the farmhouse kitchen floor surrounded by a family reunion’s worth of worried grownups. There was blood from a slice like an eye had opened in the middle of my calf, revealing something pink and streaked. 

“I think we should drive to town for stitches,” one aunt said. 

“It’s not that deep, a butterfly bandage would be enough,” my grandma countered.     
                                                                                                             
My leg was the center of everyone’s attention, but instead of embarrassed, I felt proud. I had after all been with the cool aunt, climbing a ladder—a metal one, sharp at the edges—to look at a black racer snake draped over the barn rafters. After the ladder tipped, I’d hobbled into the house with blood running down my leg, but no tears. 

My mom knelt down next to me. “Do you want stitches?” she asked. “You might have a scar, otherwise.” 

They were asking? I was old enough to be given a choice? The word “stitches” made my stomach contract and my scalp tingle. I was too surprised to speak so I answered with a shake of my head: no stitches. The bandages were found and Grandma pulled the eye closed, butterfly by butterfly, into a red-line squint. 
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On the last day of the reunion, we all drove to the lake to swim. I was forbidden from the water until I pleaded “look, it’s all closed up” and Mom, to my surprise, let me go in. The August-warm water softened the scab and the eye popped open. I didn’t say anything, though; I knew if I did, I’d be stuck sitting on the hot, thorny sand watching my cousins play chicken fight. I didn’t care about any scar and they had asked, after all. It was my leg, my choice—my favorite scar.

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ELLIOTT FIELDING is a Coloradoan who writes for the love of words and the challenge of creating stories from experience and imagination. Xyr short narratives have appeared or are forthcoming in ScribesMICRO, MoonPark Review, Examined Life, and Five Minutes. 

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