My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie My knee was so swollen that I couldn't walk. Then again, that's what happens when you end the night with a boat tail lodged in your patella. The circle of cars had dissipated from the abandoned parking lot, and I craned my head to look at my reflection in a fragment of windshield glass left for me on the pavement. Under the dim street lamp, I could see dark purple bruises forming under my eyes, the flecks of blood and marrow decorating the corners of my mouth and giving my teeth a light brown crust. I smiled and waved meekly. Hello, friend. You come here often? Feebly tugging at my sleeves, I managed to pull my sweatshirt off my shaking frame and apply it to the wound, tying it like a lousy tourniquet. I thought it would be able to stop the blood from continuously streaming down my torn jeans, the red turning into a complex spider web on the denim. Instead, it simply soaked up red bubbles like a lump, and soon the thing was dripping with my own lifeline

A spot of ice cream had made a small puddle on the bench beside me. The girl still chewing on the cone paid it no mind. Nor did she pay attention to the brown and green stain on her shirt that was spreading from her chin. I smiled at her and waved when I caught her eye. But she shuddered and seemed afraid of me. I walked home that night debating whether or not to go to bed early.