The Crayola Scar Horrors ft. SpongeBob SquarePants
[DISCLAIMER: As you read this and laugh at my misfortune, please keep in mind that I was FOUR YEARS OLD at the time and that this happened almost twenty years ago. I don’t remember EVERYTHING that happened, but I do recall enough to give you a gist of the most important parts and of what led to a life-altering discovery and a permanent scar.]
When I was four years old, my idiotic “teacher” thought that it would be a good idea for a group of pure and innocent three and four-year old preschool-aged children to make a project using melted crayola crayons as wax.
I don't remember exactly -what- we were supposed to be making or -why- we were making whatever the heck it was that we were supposed to be making (whew, that was a mouthful!), but I do remember that the “teacher” split us up into groups of four-per-table so that we would have enough space to work on our project. Each table was given a box of dirty, old and stunted crayons, a candlestick with matches (which this idiot woman was ~gracious~ enough to light up for us) and colored paper.
The project definitely happened after lunch and recess, because I remember coming back to my little table feeling like a pig before thanksgiving dinner. My grandmother always used to buy me -tortas de jamón- and a delicious drink called -Boing!– for lunch; and I would usually sit underneath some dirty-ass tree eating until I felt full and became too tired to do anything. After eating, I would throw the plastic thing that my torta was wrapped in into the garbage, wipe my uniform bottoms to get rid of the dirt and then I would walk back to the classroom along with my classmates.
To get right to it, the “teacher” made some dumb spiel I don’t remember, and then she walked around the classroom lighting everyone’s candlesticks with the matches and her complete and utter lack of understanding and common sense. I think some kid started crying because he was scared of the fire (don’t quote me on this, though) and he may or may not have gotten his ass talked to outside of the classroom.
Anyways, after the candlesticks were lit and the crayons had been laid out, we began our dangerous adventure. I remember feeling excited because playing with fire felt dangerous and fun and because the melted wax looked pretty. But misery struck too quickly for me to react and my life and body were altered forever!
Thank the Puppy Lord Jesus that it wasn’t for the absolute worst, but damn! No four-year old should have to go through shit like that! I placed a blue candle over the flame and I guess I waited too long and had my right hand in the wrong place at the wrong time because....
Bits of melted wax trickled onto my hand and I screamed. Hot and ardent tears came from my ears and sound erupted through my eyes and my idiotic “teacher” rushed over. The dumb bitch had the AUDACITY to ask me what was wrong (-literally- as hardened wax was visibly stuck to my hand) and when I told her, she sent my crying ass to the bathroom to “peel it off and put this on.”
Holding my poor hand, I walked to the bathroom and began peeling the wax with my fingers. Bits of it, along with my skin, slowly came off and blood appeared. To stop the bleeding, I washed my hand with…hot water. I know, I know! The cringe in my actions and this story in general are off the roof but I am only telling you what I know, okay!
I used something (my shirt or a paper towel, I don’t remember) to wipe the blood off and I opened the “sticker”. To my great surprise, it was yellow, and had SpongeBob SquarePants on it. I peeled the back off and placed the squishy part on my hand, threw the unnecessary bits on the floor and walked out. How I managed to comprehend that the squishy-soft part went on the wound area I'll never know. To this day, the thought haunts my sleepless nights and sometimes sleepless days, too.
Anyways, THAT ladies and gentlemen is how I figured out that band-aids were a thing and that I was capable of applying them on my own.
The day ended pretty soon thereafter (?), and despite my cries of distress and discomfort, my dumb “teacher” refused to help me. She said that getting injured had been my fault and that I was making a big deal out of it because no other kid had gotten hurt; completely forgetting that a kid had burned his uniform shirt and had left school that day with a huge, charred hole right in the center of his stomach.
Also, I feel that it is important to add that this abuser of a woman was using a classic abuser tactic: blame the victim. I was FOUR YEARS OLD. Average at best, gangly and clumsy for my age. Awkward, discombobulated, pathetic...wait. Nevermind...
The day finally ended and the bell, not the teacher dismissed us. My grandmother came to pick me up from school and to make an already long and embarrassing story short, she saw my hand, asked what happened and walked straight to my “teacher’s” classroom. I heard a loud slap, the sound of a chair moving across the floor, and a cry.
My grandmother emerged from the classroom a few moments later, grabbed my hand and we walked out. I never went back to that school ever again.
Something else happened afterwards, but I'm not exactly sure of what it was. I don't think the “teacher” tried to sue, or perhaps she did, I honestly don't know. My grandmother hung around some sketchy people and she had “connections” if you catch my drift (you'll find out more about this eventually, if you stick around). I just remember us buying new uniforms and me going to a different school about a week or so later.
I wish I had an inspiring ending to this, but unfortunately I don't; so this is the end of this little story. I'll be back sometime soon. In the meantime: drink some water if you haven't had any. Eat some food if you haven't eaten anything and please try not to think of me whenever you see a box of Crayola crayons.
Originally Published: February 15, 2020