Scarface

Dad open up its urgent! Midnight at home, a bang on the front door.

Lots of blood all over him. He’s bleeding from a deep cut on his lower lid and a nick in the lid margin. My handsome boy is now handsome and, uh, interesting.

I fell against the metal deep freeze drawers. Damn! I’d meant to put those drawers back in the deep freeze. He and a mate were sleeping in the garden cottage on a Saturday night.

I staunch the bleeding and disinfect with gargle. It’s all I can find, we’ve re-arranged the house in the middle of renovations.

Next morning I phone the ophthalmic surgeon on call. On the way there I say “OK level with me: What happened?” I had seen shards of glass and found a broken bottle hidden behind the bed.

Two boys. A champagne bottle. We couldn’t get the cork off. A tussle. The wet bottle was slippery. We dropped it. It exploded.

The man checks Tom and pronounces him OK. No stitch needed. Lil bastids.

That was Sunday. On Monday his mates nicknamed him Scarface.

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