running my hand across the fence, I stop for a second at a slight scratch on one of the veins on my hand. I shrieked, almost fainted, struggled to the main office and between sobs told the receptionist of the black spider I would never forget – it treaded on my hand as though it had the right…it scratched the surface of my hand and left a mark on my conscience – I would say forever – but it doesn’t cut it.
there was no bandage for the slight mark you could hardly notice. I heard the receptionist giggle and I saw the lack of empathy in her eyes. I was disappointed; heartbroken that she could not feel the pain and to my disadvantage she couldn’t see the pain I was feeling – the tingly, sharp pain of the iddy biddy bristles of the spider’s legs.
head down, I dragged my feet, held the hand with the mark you could not see raised as though uncomfortable. it changed me, but not right away. It took years for the slight poison to reach my nerves. I never told my parents about the spider as though it warned me…if it could speak, it would have said “I’ll haunt you in your dreams.”
