narrative
The Drill bit incident
It was the most painful moment of my entire life, when a normal Friday went unusually wrong . . .
It was a frisk Friday morning, and I could hardly wait for the adrenaline rushed game of manhunt that I would play soon after tech ed. I could already hear the thumps of running feet echo through the wining ring of several saws and machines driving through several chunks of various wood. The project that I was currently working on in the pine dust filled tech ed. Room was a simple pencil holder. I calmly strode over to the dull grey Delta drill press. I then carefully stepped up on to the wooden stool before the press. A strange, uneasy feeling arose from the bottom of my stomach to the top of my throat. My sub-conscious knew something was wrong. I ignored the feeling completely. “Hmfh. Whatever,” I said to assure myself. My mistake.
I set the heavy block of wood carelessly onto it’s designated spot on the press. A split-second after I flicked on the red plastic power switch with a satisfying “click”, a typical low hum came from the strong motor of the beckoning machine. I grasped the block of wood that I was to drill with my left hand, and I used my other hand to slowly lover the three levered instrument on the machine made to descend the drill bit into the wood. The cutting edge of the press carved out a plethora of shavings from the hole it was making. But not for long . . .
As the golden blade shimmered in the dim light of tech ed. Like looking at the worn faces of a dying country, the edge of the bit caught on the rock hard knot in the wood which was concealed by the tender pine around it, the machine jerked the wood out of my hands. As I rose my shaking hand to flick off the power switch, the corner of the wood smacked the bottom joint of my thumb. Soon after that, as I was still stunned by the instantaneous smack, the bit snapped in half, sending a small shard of the metal rod flying across the room, and the other half of the bit stuck in the wood like the pencils it would have held. The wood and bit hurtled at my face at around sixteen thousand RPMs. As it all connected into my jaw, I was perfectly silent. My wounded body dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. A crimson drop of blood fell to the floor making a small pool of blood. As I coughed up blood on the cement floor, I slowly shriveled up into a ‘c’ shape. My horrid scream of pain and malice echoed through the hard thick walls of the tech ed. Room. Mr. Mayo eagerly weaved through the solid wood tables to the drill press.
“Your okay, your okay. Are you okay?” eagerly asked Mr. Mayo as he picked me up from the floor by the armpits and carefully set me on my feet with the touch of a mother with her new-born baby.
After a very long painful weekend, I came back to school. My jaw was just barely crooked, and now I could talk. I walked up to the same drill press and used it without any fear . . .
The end.
It was the most painful moment of my entire life, when a normal Friday went unusually wrong . . .
It was a frisk Friday morning, and I could hardly wait for the adrenaline rushed game of manhunt that I would play soon after tech ed. I could already hear the thumps of running feet echo through the wining ring of several saws and machines driving through several chunks of various wood. The project that I was currently working on in the pine dust filled tech ed. Room was a simple pencil holder. I calmly strode over to the dull grey Delta drill press. I then carefully stepped up on to the wooden stool before the press. A strange, uneasy feeling arose from the bottom of my stomach to the top of my throat. My sub-conscious knew something was wrong. I ignored the feeling completely. “Hmfh. Whatever,” I said to assure myself. My mistake.
I set the heavy block of wood carelessly onto it’s designated spot on the press. A split-second after I flicked on the red plastic power switch with a satisfying “click”, a typical low hum came from the strong motor of the beckoning machine. I grasped the block of wood that I was to drill with my left hand, and I used my other hand to slowly lover the three levered instrument on the machine made to descend the drill bit into the wood. The cutting edge of the press carved out a plethora of shavings from the hole it was making. But not for long . . .
As the golden blade shimmered in the dim light of tech ed. Like looking at the worn faces of a dying country, the edge of the bit caught on the rock hard knot in the wood which was concealed by the tender pine around it, the machine jerked the wood out of my hands. As I rose my shaking hand to flick off the power switch, the corner of the wood smacked the bottom joint of my thumb. Soon after that, as I was still stunned by the instantaneous smack, the bit snapped in half, sending a small shard of the metal rod flying across the room, and the other half of the bit stuck in the wood like the pencils it would have held. The wood and bit hurtled at my face at around sixteen thousand RPMs. As it all connected into my jaw, I was perfectly silent. My wounded body dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. A crimson drop of blood fell to the floor making a small pool of blood. As I coughed up blood on the cement floor, I slowly shriveled up into a ‘c’ shape. My horrid scream of pain and malice echoed through the hard thick walls of the tech ed. Room. Mr. Mayo eagerly weaved through the solid wood tables to the drill press.
“Your okay, your okay. Are you okay?” eagerly asked Mr. Mayo as he picked me up from the floor by the armpits and carefully set me on my feet with the touch of a mother with her new-born baby.
After a very long painful weekend, I came back to school. My jaw was just barely crooked, and now I could talk. I walked up to the same drill press and used it without any fear . . .
The end.
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