(no subject)
Prologue
The burn of summer asphalt against bare feet was painful enough; the shard of glass curving up from the pavement and going into her foot was enough to send her butt dropping down, hitting hard and raising the first round of tears. She looked down, at the green barb protruding from her white heel, and waited until the blood began to well up and drip down before she tilted back her head and began to wail.
She held the foot up by the ankle, keeping it crossed over her other leg and away from the ground. The other kids crowded around her, and Brandon, holding the ball peered in close.
“Does it hurt?” he asked, pointing at the wound and looking at her. With a knotted face, she nodded and sobbed. He opened his hand and reached for the glass.
“No!” she shrieked, pulling away from him. A little blood spilled onto the street. She fell back into sobbing.
“Go get her mom!” Brandon shouted at the other kids. A couple of them took off running. The others hung around just watching her cry. She sat there, calming down, looking at the blood, and starting back up in full force. After a few minutes, with no parents in sight, Brandon threw the ball to one of the spectators.
“I’m gonna pull it out, okay?”
“No!” she shrieked again.
“It has to come out! You can’ jus’ leave it in!”
She began crying again, but didn’t stop him as he reached forward. When his fingers touched, she shrieked and he pulled; in a short burst, blood shot out and began flowing steadily, drenching the cement. When she began screaming, the crowd of six and seven year olds bolted, and Brandon, looking from the screaming girl to his fleeting friends, took off.
Panicked, she tried to get up and hobble after them, but fell and scraped her knee, sending another bolt of pain through her body and forcing her to stammer on a breath, trying to cry but lacking the air necessary.
A bus shot by, belching dark grey fumes that curled and twisted before disappearing. She managed to scoot into the gutter, amongst the broken aluminum cans and wrappers from snacks long since consumed; a small puddle of thick city water held a reserve of Newport butts and some kind of black filth that swirled around in-between broken bits of sidewalk and little tiny orange caps attached to glass vials.
She looked around, trying to see someone who could help her. The city, never quiet, offered some reassurance that she was never alone; the perpetual noise of traffic echoed through the apartment buildings and boarded up houses. With no one in sight to hear her squealing, she lowered her voice into a broken sob.
As the wound began closing in thick soupy clots, the flow stopped and the trail of red began to darken and turn to crust against her skin. She tried once again to push herself off the ground, her hand supporting her shaking body as she rose from the muck and blood. The seat of her pants was wet and dirty, and she managed to stand on one wobbling leg, holding on to the parked car next to her.
She limped, lightly crying, down the street, one hand against the piss stained walls, one hand holding onto the bloody, injured leg.