I’m rolling on the ground; clutching my smoking, bloody mess of a hand. Throbbing in the back of my half-conscious head I hear my subconscious mind scolding me: you should have listened… you should have listened…

Backtrack five minutes, my Dad is strolling through the garage and sees my family and me using the treadmill as a slide.  It was just a simple game, harmless, fun, yet my Dad told us to stop playing on the treadmill.  Ignorantly we decided we knew better and just kept on playing.

Why didn’t we stop?  Not even five minutes later I was smugly pushing off after a rather successful ride when my hand caught in the space between the tread and the metal plate.  Ahhrrgg!!  The pain crept up my hand slowly – excruciatingly slowly – as if slow torture.  I felt each morsel of skin, each muscle melting as I sat helplessly clawing at the treadmill.  Time ticked slowly as smoke and blood fill the room.  My smirk melted into a mask of anguish.  I looked down and saw that all the remorseless treadmill had left of my hand was a bloody blob; I’m just lucky that I still have all five fingers.

Always listen to your parents.

Looking back I realize that listening to your parents is the best thing that you can do because they can teach you lessons, without you personally having to make the mistake (go through the pain).