monday

Walking the same gravel path for days on end, his feet remember where to land. Every dip and hill are recorded in his muscle tissue. It changes only slightly with the rain, low places becoming rivers and lakes. This afternoon is no different, his mind is somewhere else. On previous days he noted the flowers still blooming in late September. Today crows fill the branches of a large elm tree to his right. They seem to be vying for his attention, calling directly to him in their indiscernible language. In considering the meaning of their cries he fails to consider the fist-size stone sailing toward his temple. The sickening thud of a melon collapsing on a tile floor is followed by an agonizing din, and the taste of bile.
In his nauseated stumble home his muscles find their way over every bump and dip, soft ridge of gravel. Blood and peppermint run the length of his neck and stain his shirt, while he struggles to hold the contents of his bladder. Every fallen leaf is painfully radiant in this heightened state of awareness. The crunch of the rocks underfoot bounces off the inside of his swollen skull. Passing out on the couch in his den, his only consolation the fact that he’d left his wallet at home by mistake, he holds the image of the assailant with the soapy fingers of a damaged rage. It is fated to be lost.

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