First time

I run as fast as I can, my hand engulfed by my father's solid fingers. He crashes through a chipped and battered double swing door and I follow, one hand in his and the other holding a large fluffy yellow bath-towel around my waist. The towel partially covering my new favourite blue jeans.

I can hardly see through a bath of tears welling in my eyes. I swallow an exotic lung-full of a heady scent: is this the smell of cleanliness; the smell of illness; the smell of pain; the smell of death; the smell of people getting better? I breathe again through the sobs of pain. I have never smelt anything like this before.

My father shouts; the sound reverberates around the blue, battered peeling corridor. We stop running and a stomach ripping pain shoots through me; knife, needle, shark, snake: real pain. Pain that rips, slashes and cuts in my groin. My mouth is dry; dry and rough with a taste like the inside of a tin can.

My head is spinning, faster and faster it goes round. The room is turning a faint red colour; a tint of red somewhere between fresh and dried blood.

"Nurse! Doctor!" booms my father. I don't feel fear, my dad will make it all better.

A door crashes open and I can hear footsteps and voices. The towel is removed and someone carefully moves my jeans. The pain is intense; a searing, soaring, scolding pain.

"All done sonny. You won't do that again, will you?" the Doctors voice slowly fades as I take a deep refreshing breath. The pain has changed and is no longer sharp and stabbing, it is now very sore and tender; tender and sore. I open my eyes, the doctor is talking to my father. I can hear one or two sentences. "It happens surprisingly often to five and six year old boys. Yes, there is a medical name for it; Zipper-trauma."