Day 30 of the CreativeWritingChallenge #1

I feel like doing this one backwards. So here is Day 30.



Day 30: Story or poem about ice.

    So, It was a really stupid thing to do. I was a junior in high school and we were all trying to come up with ways to inflict small amounts of pain on each other to see who was the best when it came to pain tolerance and kill a few hours on a Friday evening. One guy would burn a candle and put his hand into the little pool of wax when there was enough. Another guy would hold his finger over a lighter for a second or maybe two. I was the idiot who got dry ice and held it in his hand for 30 seconds. His dominant hand, that he needed to play football and to run his fingers through his girlfriend’s hair and all that.

    Thirty whole seconds of dry ice on bare skin isn’t the greatest thing ever. In fact, it’s really frickin’ dumb. Ice burns are just as bad as, if not worse than, fire burns. You know why? Because the ice, especially dry ice, will basically char your skin and leave it like a scab. For a few seconds, you feel cold and that’s painful as it is. But after that, your skin registers the sensation as burning. When you ignore the burning because you’re trying to show off to your friends, the skin starts to burn.

    I dropped the dry ice after those thirty seconds and my skin didn’t’ look all that bad. It was really red, but that was about it. Needless to say, I won the contest that day because the other guys couldn’t make it past ten seconds. I was really proud of myself. But in the next couple of days, I really saw how bad dry ice burns can be.

    I noticed it the next morning; my skin was a little rough but I went about my day thinking nothing of it except when it would sting a little when i washed my hands after the bathroom or little things like that. When I woke up the next morning, there was a scab around the whole area and just breathing on it hurt. Seriously, breathing on it hurt. My girlfriend’s hair was always so silky and soft, and I couldn’t even touch it because just a few strands of her hair brushing across that scab hurt like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I mean, I had my left hand to pick up where I couldn’t use my right hand, and luckily enough I could write with my left hand so I didn’t fall behind in school. But my right hand was screwed up for at least a week.

    And that’s why that area of my palm is just a slightly different color than the rest of my skin. Because of a dumb decision in high school.

    But I still won the pain tolerance contest. So it was worth it.



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