Pride

I decided to only post those works here I'm proud of at the moment. It varies, I admit. I can be proud when I've just finished something, but throw it away (figuratively) as useless a while later. I think of myself as critical, but I suppose that depends on your point of view.

Anyway, I wrote this short piece a while ago, edited it just now and feel like posting it. I guess I'm happy enough with it, though I know improvement is always possible.

Please note: this is something that came to my mind once, nothing is based on my own experiences or experiences of family/friends I know of. It's fictious!

Fragmentation

Dazed, she walked down the street. It was dark, little people were around, but she hardly noticed. Her eyes focused on a point not too far from her head, she kept on walking and kept not noticing.

The sound of sirens came from somewhere. It wasn’t far away, but not very close either. She heard it, but it didn’t get through to her. Her brains simply didn’t register. Still dazed, she kept on going, without looking back, without even looking forward.

Headlights of cars coming in her direction blinded her. She didn’t care and kept on walking.

Not much later it started raining. Not pouring, but a slight drizzle that would soak her in not longer than half an hour. She hardly noticed how the weight of the water made her hair heavy and fall down to her shoulders in wet strings.

It hurt. It hurt for her to walk, everything hurt, yet she kept going, never stopping.

Dazed, exhausted, she walked and turned a corner. The street she entered was a busy one, though she didn’t register this. People walked past her, but didn’t see, nor did she see them.

Another corner, she kept on walking, kept on going, never slowed down. She passed closed shops, crowded snack bars and dark houses.

Farther and farther she went. Turning corners, crossing roads, crossing a canal, going through a park.

She didn’t see any of it. Her eyes were glazed, unfocused.

Another street, more houses, big houses, rich houses.

Nothing ever reached her.

Walking through a small park, passing tiny homes, shacks, poor people, junkies, burning trash cans.

Somewhere far away the thunder crashed. A rainstorm was coming this way.

Faster and faster she went.

Until she bumped into him.

An old man, shaggy looking. He had a grey beard, it was dirty, he was dirty. He smelled awful, yet she still didn't notice her surroundings. He looked at her. He saw her. In his brain it did register.

“What is wrong?” he asked in a low, soft and friendly voice.

She blinked, looked into the man’s eyes. The glaze left her eyes. She saw him too, now.

“I,” she began,

“I was raped.”