Author of the award winning book Murdered
Dedicated to my sister
The Field The azure blue sky with its brightly shining sun greeted me as I stepped out of the school onto the pebble stone field. It was a sky so perfect it could be in a picture, but the field I was standing on? It was the worst field anyone could ask for. I hate this cursed field, I thought as I walked across the rock sheeted surface. One touch of direct contact could send a rock into your skin. If there was such a thing as curses, this field would be under one. I looked at the horizon to see the rusty monkey bars that I fell off of and scratched my elbow 3 years ago. Next to it I saw the mud hill that I tripped and sprained my ankle 2 years ago, and in the moist tunnel beneath the hill, I hurt my head 1 year ago. I winced at the thought of all my painful injuries and looked away. Yes. This field was cursed. Every time I stepped on it I would get hurt. My job today was to go off of the field after the jump rope tournament unharmed. “Get in line!” my homeroom teacher yelled, interrupting my thoughts. We were about to start. The first person in line went dashing. “One! Two! Three! Four!” we yelled in unison as one after another, we jumped once and moved on. “Five! Six! Seven! Eight!” It was almost my turn. “Nine” the person in front of me went running, creating small cloud of dust. I stepped forward to quickly follow after as the rope made a full loop, and made a sound as it met the ground. I was too early. The rope hit me full speed on the back of my head with such force I fell face down onto the ground. I felt myself tilting. My arms flailed out for something to grab, but found nothing. I felt my hands impacted the ground, and my knees scraped the pebbles. I rolled a few meters until finally halting. I could feel the pebbles on my cheek when I opened my eyes. At first there was no pain. I stood up and brushed the tiny pebbles off of me. I moved to take off the dirt on my elbow. I turned back and lifted my left foot to get back in line but caught a glimpse of red. Slowly I set my foot back down and looked down to my knees. Most of the skin was scraped off revealing the raw flesh. The wound was filled with dirt and pebbles dyed red. I bent my knees to bring the wound towards my face so I could see more of the damage and felt a small rip of skin. More skin had broken open bringing the first streams of blood. Then it began to sting. When I finally got to the nurse, blood was pouring out in little streams down my legs, creating bloody footprints that lead from the field and through the hallways to the nurse’s office. The nurse stared at me in shock. “What happened?” She cried. “Are you OK?” “How are you not crying?” what seemed like a million questions spilled out of her mouth as I stumbled into the blindingly white room. “Yes. Yes. I’m fine. I just fell down. It’s just a small scratch.” I answered, trying to act tough as I sat on a cold metal stool. “Just a small scratch.” The nurse repeated, shaking her head. The pain increased and more blood poured out of the wound, and brung tears to my eyes. I bit back my sob and kept my tough attitude. “I just need a small bandage.” I muttered as another phase of pain ripped through my leg. A gust of cool wind blew in my face bringing the sharp metallic odor
of blood mixed with the smell of hospital. This was entirely the field’s fault. The field’s fault. The field’s fault! A little voice chanted in my head. This was all because of the field. If there was no field I wouldn't have been hurt. My eyes flamed and watered with unfallen tears of anger for the field and from the pain of my injury. “OK! I’m going to put some antibacterial on your knee. It might hurt a little but it’s going to be just fine. “The nurse exclaimed. She stood in front of me with the antibacterial in one hand and a tissue in the other. The light reflected off of her glasses making the nurse look like an evil mad scientist in cartoons. I cowered in front of her, eying the dreadful object that would inflict pain upon me. It was as if the large bloody mess was reacting to the fastly pervading stench of the antibacterial. It was pulsing with pain as if there was a small heart beating on my knee. The nurse stepped forward. I cringed and gripped the armrests on my chair so tightly, my knuckles went white. It was as if everything was in slow motion. The antibacterial came closer and closer centimetre by centimetre. The sharp scent of it wafted through the air making my hair stand on end and my skin get Goosebumps. It stopped right above my knee, tilted, and a tiny drop formed at the mouth of the bottle. I watched as it grew bigger, and slowly fell towards my leg, glinting like a raindrop in the sunlight. As I walked back from the nurse’s office my feet made a squeaky noise as if I stepped on something wet. I looked down and the sight was one out the horror film Resident Evil. There was smeared blood all over the floor as if a nearly dying person (zombie) dragged herself across the floor. I quickly walked around it doing everything I can not to throw up. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a doorway leading to brightness. I narrowed my eyes at the mysterious door and slowly walked towards it. Even after 7 years, I still remember this moment, when I thought that all my injuries were the field’s fault. I almost see and feel as if it happened only seconds ago. It was only after I started writing this that I realized my injury was my fault and not because the field was cursed. Often times I see people who blame their own faults on other people or objects, and every time I look at them I remember this exact story of when I was still a stubborn and naive child.
About the author: Marian Kondo lives in Warsaw, Poland and is a self-‐proclaimed genius. Other than this book she has written the book Murdered an award winning book and New York Times best seller. She is 12 and goes to the American School of Warsaw. She is from Tokyo Japan and has an older sister. This memoir is about a girl who is injured while doing jump rope. It is about her finding out that her injury was caused by herself and not because of the field that was assumed cursed by her. New York Times -‐ A great memoir has no competition. Roald Dahl – reminds me of the time I blamed something else on my mistake.