When I was in the fourth grade, I broke my wrist. I was playing this game called “Hulk” where my friend would hold me as tight as she could from behind, and I would try to release myself. We were playing our usual game, and I tripped and fell on some unattended rocks. I fell hard on the ground and heard a snap. I recovered quickly, brushing the dirt off myself and giving a hand to my friend, who was still recovering from our collision. But when she touched my hand, pain shot  though my whole body.
My teacher ran over to me asking what was wrong. I showed her my limp, pink wrist. She let me lay my broken hand on her hand as we half-walked, half-ran down the hallway to the elementary school’s office. My left hand was firmly griping my unusable right hand. All I could think to my self was, what if I can never draw again? What if my arm needed to be cut off?
As I made the dreadful passage to the office for some ice and a call to my mother, something happened around my waist area. My pants. My pants where slowly starting to lose grip over my hips. Falling fast, they made their way down my legs and onto the floor. I didn’t have any hands to save them. I couldn’t stop this  horrible fate around my ankles. My journey to the office was embarrassingly interrupted with me shimming my pants back on with my one good hand. My teacher couldn’t look me in the eye from then on.
Once we finally passed the gym, we burst thought the office doors proclaiming that I needed medical attention and soon. The office staff rushed to the phone and quickly dialed my mother at work. While this was happening, my teacher rushed to the small first aid station to get me some ice to relieve the intense hand pain.
I sat on a bench outside the office silently crying trying to contain this large swelling pain. Another student in my class dropped off my backpack in the office, and I waited for my mom to come a take me to the hospital, where they would probably probe me and cut my arm off. School ended and children began to point and whisper at me through the halls. My mother finally arrived a full eternity later.
The hospital was huge and covered in white. It smelled like sterilizers and dead people. I was terrified. The nurse at the desk took my blood pressure and asked me:
“On a scale of one to ten how bad does it hurt?”
“Eleven.”
The nurse escorted me into a room with a contraption that could have been a bed out of a horror movie. She told me to sit. I was in trauma room one. I turned to my mom.
“Mom, what does trauma mean?”
“Trauma is when something hurts really, really badly so the doctors have to put you in a special room.”
Oh cr*p, I really was going to die.
The doctor finally came into the room looked at me, then told some person dressed in pastel green pajamas that I needed an x-ray. An X-ray that was definitely code for death- ray.
In the x-ray lab, they were going to experiment on me. This was the end, and my wrist hurt. They made me lie on the coldest table from the furthest pole.  Then one of the nurses walked into a back room, a light brighter than the sun shot out from all directions.
I thought to myself
“Aliens, they must be aliens.  Why would they wear such strange clothing? I must be very close to their spaceship.”
After five full hours of waiting, I got a humongous cast around my wrist and a story to tell people for the rest of my life. Also I didn’t get probed.