Scar

I have a scar that no one is aware of. And it's not one of those emotional or psychic scars; it's a real-life physical scar. And it's not in a concealed area either; it's in plain sight on the inside of my right wrist, about an inch and a half long, and faded now. I've had it since I was 9 years old, and it used to be longer, red, and very noticeable, when I was young and the scar was new and in its prime. At first, when people, adults, would notice and ask how I got it, I was too shy to answer, so I probably said I didn't know. Later on, doctors would ask, because I guess it did look like I tried to cut my wrist, and I had to come up with a better answer, so I would say I fell on some glass. That was partly true, but actually I was knocked down and run over by a fire engine. This is how I was scarred for life:
Back in the day, the night before Halloween was prank night. Though it was called then Doorbell Night, the activities, i.e. vandalism, were much greater than the name would imply. What was done back then with pretty much a wink and a nod would bring reporters and criminal investigation today. Probably because there was no such thing as mischief or destruction at any time other than the scary night before Halloween, adults seemed willing to overlook the damage done, and, except for the targeted victims, even seemed to condone it. People would speak rather admiringly of some of the most memorable examples of vandalism from the past. I remember my father recollecting a time when a front door was actually rigged with a concealed bucket of water which drenched the unlucky home owner. I knew of that trick from comic books, but hadn't realized it had ever been actually carried out. The village was populated with a more cohesive group of people years ago, and plans were easily conceived and efficiently implemented. Most of the homes had outhouses in the back yard, some still in use. On Halloween morning, several of those little buildings were found lying on their sides. Garbage cans formed roadblocks, car and house windows were covered with soap. So it was no surprise one Halloween season to find a fire engine in the lot next to our house, deposited there by the"big kids." Not just any fire engine, but an antique, single-shafted type with the hose basket on top. It was the 40's though, when no one much valued the antique aspect of the venerable old piece of equipment, so no one came to retrieve it for several years, as I seem to recall. It stayed there in plain sight, an attraction for us little kids, who came to consider it as part of our informal playground. A vacant lot, an unwanted piece of junk------it had to be good for something. We younger kids used to sit on it, and fancied it a stagecoach when we played cowboys and Indians, or a car when we imagined traveling, and I suppose at times, we considered it as it was, a fire engine--one that required a horse. When the novelty had worn off somewhat, some of the bigger boys, my brother included, tipped it on its side, on a slope. There was a very large iron wheel on each side: it had only the two wheels. The front had a shaft in the middle. We used to imagine a horse on either side of the shaft, but thinking about it now, I believe it must have been meant to be drawn by men. It was not very big, and there was a round metal basket on top (another story), where the fire hose would be coiled. So the fire cart is on its side, on a slope, and the long wooden shaft can be pulled up to the top of the hilly slope, you can sit on the shaft, and when someone gives it a push, the shaft, with riders, swings down the slope, and since it rests on a big round wheel, carries considerable force. A makeshift piece of playground equipment, if ever there was one. One day, I had the misfortune to be standing in the arc of the pendulum shaft when someone swung it down, hitting me in the shins and knocking me flat on the ground. My leg really hurt, and when I picked myself up and reached down to rub my throbbing leg, I saw blood streaming from my wrist, where there was a long gash caused by my falling on broken glass. That was another popular sport of the boys at the time, (always those darn boys.) Then soda was sold in glass bottles, there was no deposit, and therefore no incentive to return them, so they became part of game-time for THE BOYS, who would line them up, and throw rocks at them. So broken glass was a playground hazard which we learned to avoid, that is, unless somebody knocked you down with a fire engine. Anyway, my cut was spectacular enough that my mother considered taking me to Dr. Sproat, but once the bleeding stopped, it was decided otherwise.
Since all stories should have a moral, take your pick. They say scars never completely heal. That of course is true. They say some scars are internal, and though unseen, once incurred, always exist, though they remain unseen, also true. But what about a scar that is completely visible, but is completely unseen. The moral could be that the person with the scar has become invisible.