Personal Narrative
Personal Narrative
It was a beautiful, summer’s day. I was five years old and I skipped out to my swing. The swing was based on my favorite cartoon, Sesame Street. I loved to swing so high that I’d almost throw up. As I skipped out the door, I saw something very wrong. My older sister was on my swing. She smiled at me and kept swinging.
Her long brown hair swung behind her and then in front of her again. Her legs pumped even higher. I could tell from the expression on her face that she was mocking me. She knew that the swing was mine and yet she was on it.
“Get off my swing, right now!” I shouted at her.
She smiled, “Nope,” and then kept of swinging.
“Get off now or else,” I stated between clenched teeth.
“Or else what?” she smirked and then stuck her tongue out at me.
Next, blood filled my face. My fists tightened until my fingernails dug into the palms. I ran at full speed for her. My stubby, little legs gaining speed. I felt like Batman flying through the air. I threw my body at her, knocking us both onto the ground.
I had always been a biter. It was the type of kid that bit the neighbor’s kid and chewed on tables. It was my defense mechanism. I would bite on something whenever I was frustrated or wanted to get someone’s attention. It always worked.
My sister, Mel, was crushed on the ground and still disoriented from me jumping on her. I took advantage of the situation and sunk my teeth into her smooth, pink cheek. Blood filled my mouth and I could hear her screaming.
I felt my mother’s arms wrap around my waist. She pulled me until I was completely off of my sister, so I unclenched my teeth. Mel held her face while the blood spilled between her white fingers. I climbed onto my swing while they rushed her inside.
Miraculously, she didn’t need stitches, but she and I both learned something about one another, which took a long time for us to get over. We learned that I would use violence to get what I wanted and that she
It was a beautiful, summer’s day. I was five years old and I skipped out to my swing. The swing was based on my favorite cartoon, Sesame Street. I loved to swing so high that I’d almost throw up. As I skipped out the door, I saw something very wrong. My older sister was on my swing. She smiled at me and kept swinging.
Her long brown hair swung behind her and then in front of her again. Her legs pumped even higher. I could tell from the expression on her face that she was mocking me. She knew that the swing was mine and yet she was on it.
“Get off my swing, right now!” I shouted at her.
She smiled, “Nope,” and then kept of swinging.
“Get off now or else,” I stated between clenched teeth.
“Or else what?” she smirked and then stuck her tongue out at me.
Next, blood filled my face. My fists tightened until my fingernails dug into the palms. I ran at full speed for her. My stubby, little legs gaining speed. I felt like Batman flying through the air. I threw my body at her, knocking us both onto the ground.
I had always been a biter. It was the type of kid that bit the neighbor’s kid and chewed on tables. It was my defense mechanism. I would bite on something whenever I was frustrated or wanted to get someone’s attention. It always worked.
My sister, Mel, was crushed on the ground and still disoriented from me jumping on her. I took advantage of the situation and sunk my teeth into her smooth, pink cheek. Blood filled my mouth and I could hear her screaming.
I felt my mother’s arms wrap around my waist. She pulled me until I was completely off of my sister, so I unclenched my teeth. Mel held her face while the blood spilled between her white fingers. I climbed onto my swing while they rushed her inside.
Miraculously, she didn’t need stitches, but she and I both learned something about one another, which took a long time for us to get over. We learned that I would use violence to get what I wanted and that she