Dick Wydoo, the Real Wooden Boy

Dick Wydoo, a boy I went to school with, was walking home from our final class of the evening early, because a huge log was dropped on his arm during woodshop, so he was excused. He winced at the pain in his right arm, and dared not to look at the crippled limb, for Dick had a weak stomach.

His home was empty besides his cat; on the kitchen table a note taped to a frozen tv dinner read "My mother had a stroke, will be home in a week. Plenty of these in the freezer. -Mom." He shoved the packet into the microwave and sat down, ready to see what damage the forearm had taken. On the top side there were five bruises, and nestled in his freckled skin were hundreds of splinters. Dick tried pulling a long one out but it was far too painful to apply any pressure on the bruised arm.

As the night progressed and Dick grew tired, he looked down at his arm to see the bruises had already turned yellow. He examined the middle one closer in the dark room illuminated only by the television, and realized it had protruded and swelled to the size of a cherry tomato. He got up to apply an ice pack, inadvertently putting pressure on the arm, and the bruise popped, like a popcorn kernel, and a sticky substance splattered all over his face. Out oozed a gross, amber colored fluid. Dick poked his pinky into the thick fluid, pulled it out, and sniffed the orange covered finger. The fluid smelled of sap. Dick ran to the bathroom sink and scrubbed the amber off, washed his face vigorously, and winced at the pain but persevered nonetheless. He couldn't get all of it off, as is the problem with tree sap--"but this couldn't possibly be sap" Dick said "right?"

Dick turned off all the lights and crept into bed. He slept well that night, but it would be his last.

The next day was a Saturday, thank God. Dick woke up, feeling nourished from the sweet dream he had that night, and made him forget all about his arm. He dreamed he could fly, and rescued the girl of dreams, Denise.

Dick pushed the last bit of toothpaste out of the tube, and, pulling the toothbrush up to his mouth a final time, he saw in the mirror not his arm, but a branch! Dick's bruised arm was gone, and in its place was a tree branch! Dick panicked, eyes wide, he touched the wood and felt it was very hard, but still newly grown. He asked himself if he was dreaming, even pinched the wood and decided it was, unfortunately, very real.

Dick felt dizzy, his vision became blurry and he collapsed on the tile floor.

When Dick awoke, it was night time. He checked his phone and had seven voicemails and several texts from his mom. He thought frantically, and devised a smart text reply to his mom. He couldn't possibly speak right now, not in his condition, whatever this condition is. She wanted to know how he was doing by himself, and to let him know his grandma is not doing too hot. After his text, he googled "what to do if arm turns into wood" and got zero results. "Oh no," he whimpered. 

He walked to his room and sat down at his mahogany desk. He laid his arm on it and inspected it over and over. His fingers had become little green sprouts. He could wiggle them and move them just as before. Then he inspected his palm, which was now wooden and covered in bark. He peeled a piece of bark off--which was about the equivalent of peeling a blister--and saw the real wood. Next was his forearm, a branch the same width as his original right forearm. Along the top, small leaves and acorns were growing where his arm hair would have been. He plucked one and inspected that. It was just a regular oak leaf. He pulled off his t-shirt and saw his entire arm had turned to wood, in fact, his shoulder and half of his chest had become wooden. Dick picked off the bark on his chest to reveal skin blotched with dark brown oak wood. His new skin smelled of mulch. He knocked on his chest like an ape and it was very hard.

Later, when Dick felt brave enough, he slipped a sweater over his new body, and walked to the drug store a few blocks away. The stress and anxiety of having an abnormal arm had him in a frenzy. He carried to the front desk all the chocolate milk and candy bars he could carry in his left arm. This should be enough for the weekend.

"This it?" The man with a name tag labeled Jim asked.

"Hehe, yeah." Dick managed. His breathing was getting harder, and he felt a little dizzy again.

Behind him a man in a black leather jacket and a black beanie marched in.

"Nobody move!" He shouted, pulling a revolver out of his jacket.

Dick was terrified. He panicked and began running to the back of the store, but the man in black used up all his bullets on Dick's back. Dick collapsed, and the man in black fled the scene. Jim behind the counter, crying, picked up his phone and dialed 911. He ran to Dick, screaming, expecting a bloody mess. Instead there was just a slow river of sap seeping out of the six holes in Dick's back. Jim put his hands on the wounds to stop the bleeding, thinking since there wasn't any blood, he might be okay, but his neck had no pulse. When Jim pulled his hands away, they were glued to his back.

Not even I know what was happening to Dick's body, because it happens to us differently. I should know, after a small spider bit me, I've never been the same.

Dick died that night, but he did not die in vain. Not meaning to, Dick saved Jim's life that night. I watched him from the time the wood was dropped on him until his death. I took care of the man in black. He is sitting in New York city's jailhouse now.

Dick had real potential; I'm sad he is gone, after all, it's not everyday a hero is born.