Middle, Beginning, End

I feel blood clotting the napkin that I held, pressed tight against my mouth. My uncle fumbles down the payment, carrying my five-year-old body away from the playground. I can still hear children playing and laughing as I try to think of anything, anything but the pain.

My mouth feels like it's aflame, my heartbeat thundering through the napkin that's blocking my screams in place. Tears stream freely down my face, as my uncle races me back to the house.

I think back to the moment of impact, when I tripped, open-mouthed and shattered my face against the side of the park bench, tasting nothing but cement. And blood. Lots of blood.

Blood and pain are all that consume me. In the distance, I see my cousins running ahead to tell my mom what happened. Houses blur past us; through my water-filled eyes, I can't tell where one city block ends, and another begins. I blink back more tears, shuddering at the severe ache that is my mouth, my uncle rubbing my back, trying to soothe me as he runs.

I press the napkin tighter, refusing to look at it, thinking about what it's like to be pain-free. I can't remember.

Shuddering, I recall walking over to the park bench, where my cousin Zach was laying, making hand-airplanes against the sky. "Whatcha doing?" I asked, stepping up and then, the middle of my sneaker catches and I'm slammed back to the present, to my uncle carrying me, and whispering to me.

"Just hold on, Kayla, hold on."