That reminds me of when I was about 11 years old and living in a home for children (i.e., an orphanage in a convent) in Philadelphia. There were two boys who were roommates, Yummy (yes, that was his nickname, he was a chunky kid of Mongolian anscestry that looked like a little buddha -- he got the nickname cus "yummy" was his most-used word) and Peter (a scrawny little kid from Brooklyn). They were mostly friendly, but occasionally they would fight. One time Yummy got pissed at Peter, and threw a plastic toy squirt gun at Peter. It hit him in the eye and split his lower eyelid, *exactly* like Becky's picture. The moment after it happened, Peter knew it hurt, but he had no idea what it looked because he hadn't seen it in the mirror. He ran up to us girls, crying hysterically, and screaming "Does it look bad? Does it look bad? Should I tell Sister Olga Marie?" We were horrified, of course, because his eye was dripping tears and blood, and it looked BAD. So we ran and got the nuns, who rushed him to the emergency room, and he got a bunch of stitches. The white part of that eye was also bruised, and turned bright red from a burst blood vessel. That red eye (which lasted a couple of weeks) was the creepiest part of it all -- even worse than the stitches. That was when I learned that the old adage "It's all fun and games until someone gets their eye poked out" was really true. ;D

Ahhhhhhhh, the memories!