"Girl, you got Talons."

I don't remember how old I was, but I remember it like it was yesterday. It was at the Yatch Club my family belongs to but never goes to anymore. All of us little kids who used to hang out there were playing tag in the old wooden locker rooms. We would hide in the open lockers and race our hearts out to the base. Every now and then a worried mother would yell in "Watch out for splinters!" And we'd nod solemnly to each other. We all knew about splinters.

I had been hiding with my one of my friends - whose name I can't even remember - when the tagger moved past our locker. I poked my head out to make sure he was safely around the corner before grabbing my friends hand and we sprinted to base. As we waited for everyone else to catch up with us, I felt an aching pain in my foot, and when I inspected it I found a splinter - a good 4 or 5 inches long - sticking out of my foot. It didn't even hurt.

Limping, I left the game and went over to a lifeguard and pointed to my foot. She looked like she was going to pass out. The splinter was in my foot good, half in half out.

"This is guna hurt" she admitted as I sat in the green plastic chair, both my hands clutching one of the arm rests. I shrugged and she began to pick away at the skin at the bottom of my foot with tweezers. It took about 2 hours for them to get it out, and the whole time I sat still and motionless. I didn't feel a thing.

"Girl, you got Talons." One of the lifeguards remarked taking a sip of her coke. I just smiled at her, and hoped I would get a cool scar to show off to my friends. When the splinter was out, they bandaged up my foot and I asked if I'd have a scar. Much to my dismay, they replied with a "not likely", so I asked if i could keep the splinter.

Looking at my foot now, they were right; I don't have a scar. But I still have that damn splinter. And I still got those damn talons.