When I was ten, I hurt myself at a beach while on vacation. Banged up my head, cut up my knee. If I remembered what I looked like at ten, I might remember standing in front of the mirror at the urgent care in my swim trunks, covered in blood. Was I nine? Was I ten? The summer of Batman is sort of a hard one to remember fully. I remember some of it, but not the rest. I remember seeing Batman while visiting my best friend in Michigan, I remember seeing it with my dad upon my return, I remember getting my mom to finally go see it in August. Maybe I banged myself up the summer before. I don’t remember much about the beach, except I hurt myself at a stream inland. It was still sandy, but it was pre-beach. Some kind of storm pipe. I can’t remember if you could crawl through it, but I assume so. Big enough for a child to walk through. I remember the jagged piece of metal where I cut up my knee. I think I still have the scare; i did or years. I liked scars. If you pick a scab early and often enough, you get a scar. One of those great things I learned in life. Scars add personality. I even have a long one down my right cheek now, but I doubt I’ll regard it with pride. More likely regret and sadness. I didn’t learn anything from this experience. I didn’t stop doing stupid, dangerous things. I didn’t feel invincible. I just didn’t care. I do remember imagining a big scrap of skin hanging from that jagged piece of metal, like it had dared me and won.

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