Tears. All I saw when I looked at his face were the tears streaming down. My poor baby brother was in so much pain. His cheeks were stained with tears and tiny drops of blood coming from his eyebrow. Eleven-year-old me had never thought that one beautiful summer day would take a turn for the worse in a matter of seconds. I thought everything was supposed to be happy and fun when you’re eleven. I guess not.

“Come on, let’s race to the garage!” Grady shouted from the end of the driveway.

“Ok, but be prepared to lose, little man,” I stated as I continued talking to my mom about my day at Holiday World.

 “You take forever. Come on,” he pleaded. He was already lined up on the end of our long driveway. It was a hot day and the heat was radiating off the concrete, making it even hotter. We were both dripping sweat already.

“Ok, I’m coming,” I stood up from the chair, wiping the sweat off my forehead. I lined up with the short, skinny little boy. I’ve got this in the bag. I mean, I have way longer legs than him. Right? I thought as he started to count down from three. I mean who wants to lose to their little brother? Wait, don’t answer that; I already know no one does.

Three. Two. One. Boom. We both took off at full speed to the garage. I ran as fast as a dog chasing a squirrel. The wind was blowing through my long, blonde hair. I stopped right in front of the garage floor, turning around to say I told you so. Suddenly, he came tumbling into the garage, like he had no control over his body whatsoever. He turned to jump up the stairs but slipped and hit the side of the stairs. My eyes got as big as a cartoon character. I ran out of the garage and screamed at the top of my lungs for my parents to come. They came running with eyes just as big as mine, their faces full of confusion as they looked at my dumbfounded expression.

“What’s wrong?” my mom hollered as she ran into the garage. “Why are you freaking out like that?” Worry was written all over my mom’s face as she looked around the garage franticly. I pointed to the ground that my brother was now sitting on.

 My parents quickly turned their heads looking at my little brother with blood now dripping down his face. Oh my goodness, he’s bleeding. He hit his eye. He had to have hit his eye. It’s going to fall out, I thought as I stared at my little brother with a scared expression on my face.

“Run inside and get a washcloth and an icepack. QUICKLY!” my dad exclaimed as he got closer to him. I sprinted into the house and gathered everything we needed like a crazy woman. I jumped down the stairs and threw the items into my mom’s open arms. She worked diligently, clearing all the blood away from his face. As the now stained wash cloth was removed from his forehead, we saw a huge gash in his head right above his eyebrow. It was almost like the stair corner had punctured his head.

My mom sighed and mumbled, “Get the car ready; he needs stitches.”

We piled into the car like a bunch of clowns and headed to Kosair Children’s Hospital. The car ride was almost completely silent, with the mumble of the radio in the background. It felt as if it took a hundred years to get there. The whole way there, he held ice pack to his eye, never moving it away from the pain. I hate this. I hate this. I hate this, I thought as we got closer and closer to the hospital. Last time I was here was when my cousin was having surgery. The fear of hospitals was starting to come back and was stuck in the front of my mind.  

As I walked into the hospital, my heart pounded, and there was a knot in my stomach. I was terrified for him. He was so nervous about the stitches that he wouldn’t walk on his own. It was around ten o’clock now, and I could barely keep my eyes open. I struggled into the room where he would get his stitches, holding my dad’s hand the entire time. The walls were a plain tan color, and it smelled like the doctor’s office. I took a seat right in between my mom and dad, snuggling into their arms. A nice nurse with cartoon scrubs on came in and turned on a movie for us to watch.

 I waited and waited, watching my brother with helpless eyes. If only it was me. If only I had kept running or stopped him from running into the garage. If only I had been responsible and said no to racing at all. My poor younger brother would not be sitting in that hospital bed, waiting to get stitches. After minutes of being trapped in my own thoughts, I soon fell asleep.

Next thing I knew, I was waking up to the sound of a car door slamming shut, and a little boy that had stitches in his eyebrow sitting next to me. I realized that finally the tears were dried and the pain was gone. Was the guilt?

 Maybe not, but the only thing reminding us now of that day is the scar above his eyebrow.