I never realised how sublime watching one’s own life trickle into the gutter would be.
I hadn’t even meant to get involved. I’d just been standing there, watching the drunks fall out of the pub. She had walked straight into a sweet left hand meant for him. The lads had continued unaware and I went from the bus stop to kneel next to her. She was out cold so I began to put her into the recovery position.
“What the fuck are you doing mate?”
“I’m just making sure she can breathe.”
“Like fuck you bastard, get off my bird.”
I stood up, “I wasn’t the one that punched her, you did that.”
Surprisingly he never said another word. He just reached forward and patted me with the end of his clenched fist. Or so I thought. Until I looked down and saw the metal blade coming out of me. His hand holding the slippery steel tight, like it might escape his grasp. I hadn’t even felt it. I looked into his eyes and saw his fear. He ran and I fell.
My hands are pressing hard onto the opening. The redness of my blood is turning my blue jumper quite purple. No-one seems to have noticed and I can’t seem to be heard. A gutter next to a bus stop. Not what I had envisaged.