Narrative

Fear of Heights

    It was ten years ago, in Al-Khobar, Saudi Arabia, when my family and I went to the famous Aramco Beach. There was white sand all over the place, and there was this large playground where I played in. I made friends with some Arab kids and played with them all afternoon until I saw this kid. We were of the same height. His skin was as brown as coffee beans, and his hair was as curly as that of a poodle. He swung across the monkey barras in less than a minute. I was impressed by his courage and speed. I tried to do the same. I stepped on the platform and looked below. It was feet above the ground. My vision started to become blurry. I was afraid. I was scared of heights, but at that time I didn’t mind. I just had to face my fear.  I needed to prove to myself that if the kid could do it, then so could I. I also wanted to prove to myself that heights aren’t really that scary. I started swinging across the monkey barras. I held one bar at a time. When I got in the middle, my pace got faster. I held one bar. Then I proceeded to the next. My hands slipped. I fell to the ground on my right arm. I quickly stood up and ran to my parents without even realizing my right arm was swaying more than 180 degrees. My right arm was broken. My parents, upon seeing my broken arm, rushed to the nearest hospital. I was then confined for weeks, had my arm casted, and had a large pin pierced through the joints of my elbow.

    That was my first and last try to cross a monkey barras, and I, as a result, was still afraid of heights.