Burnt

At the beginning of the week, I burnt my hand on the wood stove getting a rather large piece of wood in. The fire was SUPER hot, I was throwing in one last log before I left the house for a couple hours. I wanted to make sure I'd at least have some good coals when I got back. As I gave the wood an extra little shove with my left hand, I heard the most peculiar sound. It was the sound of meat sizzling, only I wasn't cooking any meat. I looked towards my hand and saw I was touching the stove with the back of my hand. My brain registered a quick pain, then it was gone. Where my hand was burnt, the skin had instantly broken open exposing under skin, and it was all black. I said a few colorful sailor words as I walked to the kitchen sink. I needed to clean it since I knew there was ashes in the burn. I shrugged grabbed the dish soap and cringed as I began rubbing in the wound, only to find out it didn't hurt. I decided to get the first aid kit and put burn cream on it before I left. Now the weird thing for me, is that this burn has never actually hurt. It feels cold, but there is zero pain.

The sound of sizzling flesh, brought up two other memories. In one memory I was 7 or 8 years old. My father had your typical child molester 1970's fan with exhaust pipes that ran the length of the van, under the doors. It was just the two of us, and we were headed to the auto part store. We arrived, I opened my door and slid out. I remember I couldn't move my left leg. It was stuck to something from behind. I remember the sound of sizzling meat, all other noises where silent. No passing cars, no birds, no people. I looked over my shoulder to see why I couldn't move and realized my leg had touched the exhaust pipe as I slid out. That's when the pain hit. I opened my mouth to scream, and no sound came out. The world was still silent, except for the sizzle and the pain. Like a crack of lighting all sound came crashing back instantly, including my voice. I was screaming. I remember seeing my father running for me, he grabbed my leg and pulled it off the exhaust pipe, because it wouldn't come free otherwise. Some of my flesh still sizzled on the pipe.

My next memory is of my father telling me to suck it up and stop crying because he wasn't leaving without the part he came for, so I lifted up my leg, which was in terrible pain and hopped into the store making whimpering sounds that kids make when they're trying their best not to cry. I stood next to a display, holding onto it with one hand. I don't remember anyone looking at me, or asking me what was wrong. I don't remember what part my father bought, I do remember it cost $14.67. On the drive home he allowed me to put my foot on the dash, wasn't I special? I never saw a doctor for the burn that covered the entire backside of my left leg.

With the exceptions of occasional cigarette burns (my father smoked 6 to 8 packs A DAY, so it was easy to bump into the lit end if you weren't paying attention) burning my leg was my first real nasty burn. This memory disgusts me. It's another one of those what the hell were they thinking moments in my childhood.

Last year, my youngest Beloved had to have his tonsils and adenoids taken out. They were so big he couldn't eat, you couldn't understand him when he talked, and he was starting to have difficulty breathing. I knew from talking with the doctor that a laser would be used. What shook me to my core, was when he was in recovery and I went to be with him, and he reeked of burnt flesh. I almost threw up on the spot. It is one thing to see, hear, or feel your own flesh burning, but to smell the burnt flesh of your child? As I write this, I can smell it, and it's making me nauseous. My son smelt like burnt flesh for 3 very long days.

Every time I see the burn on my hand, I wonder why it never hurts. It's scabbed over now, I'm waiting for it to fall off. I can't help but wonder if I'll have another little scar to mark me. I only wish I could get the sound of sizzling flesh out of my ears.