I was about four years old. It was a dark cloudy day and my father was getting ready for work. He went into the office to iron his clothes. He set the iron on high, left the room, and waited for the iron to warm up. At that age I was eager to know and touch everything that seemed fascinating. I had no idea of how hot an iron could get. I tiptoed into the office like I was a mouse trying not to get caught by a cat. When I went into the room I wandered around looking to see if there was anything interesting that I could play with. I stood up on a stool looking around. In the corner of my eye, I saw a strange piece of metal with holes, on top of it were dials and a handle. I moved the stool. It was right in front of me. I felt the steam coming out of it and the smell of burned toast.
My curiosity took over and I stuck my hand on top of the iron. After a second or two it hit me. The burn, oh the burn! The flaming fire hit my skin. It felt like I had of put my hand directly inside a container of hot lava. The excruciating pain my hand felt made everything horrific. I did not know what to do. It was as if the iron was glued to my hand. I had enough of it! I clenched my hand with my other arm and threw it up in the air. The iron slammed to the ground. My father came in the room with a frightened look on his face. My hand was as red as a ripe tomato. Large crocodile tears started to sprout out of my eyes and my chubby face showed terror. My father picked me up and ran to the kitchen to get ice. Tears kept growing and falling. It felt like a waterfall was pouring out. My dad put the ice on my hand. It slowly began to melt off the pain. It felt like heaven. The coolness began to slowly relax me and my tears settled down. When I took the ice off, my hand had no longer had the feeling of fire but the feeling of a bee stinging it. My hand felt needles stabbing into it. After a while the pain began to fade. That day I learned that I should never put my hand on an iron again.