I don’t have to drink radioactive juice like I did with the last MRI I had when I was getting migraines so bad, my left side would paralyze. But I am worried about the BB in my leg. See, I was shot by a BB Gun when I was about 8 or 10, but I had forgotten about it until it showed up in an X-ray when I was hit by a car in 1990. It’s in the back of my knee, and I don’t remember if it was ever removed. I remember discussing its removal, and debating whether “if it’s been there this long, and hasn’t caused problems, then why remove it?” I also had shitty insurance back then.
Oh, wait, how did I get shot? Well... there was this girl I knew at the time. She was living with her grandparents while her mom “sorted things out.” Jackie was a wild girl; a tomboy from a rather rural background, and she was a few years older than me. Because I was fairly impressionable, Jackie kind of bossed me around, but wasn’t really mean to me or anything. She just got into trouble a lot. She stole my whole foreign coin collection once, which ended up getting her banned from coming to my house ever again. Then she moved away.
Shortly before that, however, Jackie got a gun. I don’t recall how or where, but it was a BB gun that kind of looked like a Baretta. We were in her back yard, with was an untended mess of old grass and sticks. On a huge pile of pea gravel near a shed, she set up some can and bottles, and proceeded to shoot at them. My father forbid me to touch or even look at guns, so this was kind of a thrill for me. Jackie assured me BBs were not dangerous; you could get hit with one and it wouldn’t hurt very much. At one point, we ran out of bottles and had to reuse the same cans over and over. During one “reset,” I went out to put the cans back up, and Jackie... shot me. She had been kidding around with the idea for a while before she actually shot me. But she was surprised when I went down in pain. The BB had entered the back of my knee after tearing through my jeans. There was a LOT of blood.
Jackie freaked out. It was the only time I ever saw her lose control. She was at that point where you’re almost crying, and you’re pleading. She kept saying she was sorry, and not to tell on her, and she’d get in real trouble, and she was sorry, and not to tell anyone... and she was so so so sorry.
I limped home. My biggest fear was explaining the hole in my jeans. My mother was drunk, I think, so I just went to my room, washed out my sock and jeans in the sink, and put... wait for it... cotton and a Band-Aid over the wound. Yeah, that hurt. Hell, I was crying, but I felt like if I told on Jackie, I’d make it worse. I had thought that the BB had caused the wound but had fallen out; I probably didn’t think much about it. My mother never asked about the hole, and soon, the jeans were tossed. Over the years, sometimes the scar itched a little, but by high school, I had totally forgotten about it.
This story will also relate to an entry about my neck.