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Essay on Personal Narrative- The Story Behind a Scar

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Personal Narrative- The Story Behind a Scar

A spark of flint, then a burst of flame and the Bic lighter was alive, glowing like a serpent’s eye. It had finally come to this. Things were going so well too: I had money, dreams, a whole future figured out. Now I was a drunken liar, facing criminal charges and jail time; sadly I was only nineteen. Hungover with a broken knuckle and no memory of how it happened, to top it all off my butterfly knife, a deadly weapon made for surgically precise combat, was missing. Were the cops looking for me? And arrested before my next trial would send me to prison for sure. My only real option was to quit drinking, but if I did I'd have to face reality; however I would have to do it alone. I had to decide.
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We all have at least one: some faded, big, or tiny. Even the most pampered child has fallen on their delicate knees, learning for the first time that mom and did will not always be there to protect them from the mishaps that surround all those who are mortal.

Pat, a close friend, has a rather subtle scar that is four inches long and as narrow as a piece of paper, right at the peak of his forehead. If you were to ask he would tell you it's from an ax. His parents had denied him permission to take their boat for the weekend. It was a foolhardy attempt to say the least. Winter was approaching and storms could appear out on the Alaskan Sea in seconds, every year somebody drowned. Pat didn't even have a drivers license yet. He met his parents wisdom with complaints and shouts and finally flew out the door of the house shouting, "I hate them, they are so damned stupid." The next sounds he made were grunts of anger as he viciously swung his father's double edged ax, hacking away like a berserker on a nearby saw horse. Again and again the ax fell, splintering wood and severing boards. Every chop screamed, "I hate you!" His fury reached a climax, his fathers saw horse was to be dealt the decapitating blow, so reaching high for a mighty swing he let loose with all his might. And snagged a cloths line. The ax spring up and neatly cut a four inch slice in his forehead. I stood watching, at a loss for words, as his unintelligible snarling
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