Losing face
Every scar tells a story — even if it’s of the one that got away
MORGAN MODJESKI
For every scar there is a story that follows close behind. Every single little scar, one way or another, tells a story. Some scars come with stories of surgery, or tales of fights. Others, however, come from hilariously misfortunate accidents. These scars are ones that were not planned by a hooded assaulter or a medical doctor, but by fate. My story is of the latter. The scar I am about to tell the story of is one that I accidentally acquired during my last vacation to the Dominican Republic.
My brother and I had just gotten a feel for our resort, and decided to go for a walk to see where the action was. The first bar that we attended was located in the centre of the resort. It had an open roof and above that was covered by what looked like an enormous tent. We had a few drinks before venturing onward to check out the rest of the place.
The night was young and the air was warm and everything was ideal; it was paradise. We had found yet another bar, and the free drinks were settling in quite nice. By this time, our fourth or fifth drinks, which we held in our hand, were nearing the bottom. As our luck would have it, the next bar on the resort was no more than a few metres away. We sat at the bar and ordered ourselves some fancy drinks with names we could not pronounce, and with a flash of the wristband, everything was taken care of. “God bless you all-inclusive resorts,” I mumbled before I dove into my brightly colored drink.
As we sat and drank these drinks, a group of German teens we had met the night before approached us. We greeted them, and they told us about a disco near by and asked us to join them. Of course we agreed, and before we knew it my drink was done and an attractive brownhaired German girl was grabbing me by the hand and pulling me forward.
The disco was loud, and the Germans insisted on taking shots of tequila instead of drinking reasonably. Under the intoxication of the previous fruity drinks, I felt obliged to move onto harder liquor. After a few minutes of drinking I was starting to feel drunk, but the brown-haired girl grabbed me and pulled me onto the dance floor. I obliged, and started to dance wildly to the music blaring from the speakers. After a few more hours of drinking and dancing, the girl’s suggestion to head back to her room seemed reasonable.
I gave one of the bartenders a twenty, and he slipped me a bottle of rum. My new friend and I were off to her room, and there I was with a bottle of rum and a drunken smirk. The halls in the hotel were well-lit and so were the rooms, but the tiles were so damn slick. I stood in the doorway as she made her way to the balcony, but then for the strangest reason she started to take off her clothes. The picture I saw was an attractive young German girl half-naked and waiting. I placed the rum somewhere and broke off in a slow run to where she was standing. The next thing I recall was the loud crack of bone hitting something hard and then a lovely warm trickle of what turned out to be my blood, running down my face. The next thing I saw was a German man coming quickly at me with a towel. He told me in broken English: “Pressure, we go to doctor.”
The next thing I know I am walking down a long hallway, holding a towel to my face, and bleeding profusely. I really didn’t know how bad the cut was until I got to the hospital — the doctor at the resort simply wrapped me up with bandages and called an ambulance. We arrived at a private clinic, and 27 stitches were then sewn into my face in order to hold together what remained of my left eyebrow. After doing 18 or so of the stitches, the doctor then asked me politely to open my eyes. I do so, and he repeats once more for me to open my eyes. I open them as wide as I can, and then I see the doctor laugh. “Oh! I mean close,” he said. It was then that I realized the man who had a needle in my face spoke little if any English at all. I closed my eyes, and he finished sewing the remaining stitches and prescribed me painkillers. I slept the whole way home from the clinic and arrived back at my room.
A few weeks after the incident, I had my 27 stitches removed (thank God it was home in Canada). I was rewarded with a scar that was placed neatly above my left eyebrow. Apparently, my eyebrow was completely absent when the wound was open; it was found dangling over my eye (according to my Dad). This was a vacation I will never forget; if I went to the Dominican to get a souvenir, well then I definitely achieved my goal. I always wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t slipped. I guess I will never know. Damn you slick tile! Because of you, I definitely lost face.
