Streets

Although I've cast my eyesight upon the morning light in times past, never before have I wished in all the depths of my soul to lay in an eternal rest. Last night my face took such a gruesome beating that it more resembled jelly then that of muscle and bone. 1

I stand and spit blood from my mouth. The copper taste of bloody residue mixed with the stench of the blood itself makes me nauseous. I can still feel the blood dripping down the back of my throat from an obvious broken nose. I limp towards a bottle of water I keep stashed behind milk crates near what I believe you could call my home, a cement step outside a video store.2

I drink the plastic tinged water and, perhaps stupidly, was my face. The water stings as it enters my cuts. The swelling on my left eye prevents me from seeing all but a fraction of light; my nose continues to drip the blood from the break inside; I've bitten my tongue; intense pain inside my chest whenever I breathe implies I've broken a rib; my chest is a mess of purple, foot and fist sized bruises; my right leg appears to be fine, whilst my left leg is as purple as the rest of my body.3

I am thankful. I am alive. Just 12 hours earlier I believed I would not live until today, and I am pleased that I was wrong. This is the 4th day I have been homeless, and the 2nd fight I have been involved in. There is a type of euphoria that enters the system after you are turned into human pulp. You feel hazed, people seem to give you a silent respect. As I begin to walk to school other students gaze at me in a mixture of awe and bewilderment. I stop at the plaza. I cannot continue on to school. If I do, the teachers will be worried as to my state, then bug me to contact social services. I don't need counselling, I need an ice pack.4