A tiny little voice whispered in my ear, as I grabbed hold of the hard mattress bed, “you got this, only a few more.” As I stared up into those white fluorescent bulbs that complimented the white walls and the baby blue bed sheets, I allowed only one tear to fall. I prayed to God for his mercy because the pain was there even with the novocaine.

The amount of blood on his glove worried me, it prompted me to look up, but every time I tried to look, they instruct me to lay down. Then it was back to staring at the white fluorescent lights.

Then there was another voice different from the initial one, sadder.

Why in the world was this happening to me? What did I do to deserve a doctor slicing his way down my lower midcalf? How did my small mosquito bite turn into 6 stitches? I remember vividly the day I picked that scab to and it felt so good too. Like a normal good, like “I always pick my scabs” good. But it was a good that came back to bite me in my ass!

Moral of the story: NEVER I MEAN NEVER Pick your scabs.