Filthy; that’s the only word I could think when I looked down and saw my own blood. It didn’t make me sick, but it bothered me—like when my son spills his cereal. There was no reason for this to have happened, there should be safe guards in place, don’t you think? Nobody had the foresight to imagine this kind of situation? Color me annoyed.

Funny what you think about when you lay bleeding in a crowded street with a bunch of people looking at you. I feel like yelling “I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up,” that would certainly generate a laugh or two, but I’m not entirely sure that I can talk at all. I haven’t tried.

Why hasn’t anyone offered to help me? I must not look to good. I don’t feel all that bad, just a little nauseous perhaps. Oh great, I feel a panic attack coming on. Did I take my medication last night? I think so, so why am I getting a panic attack? It feels like I can’t breathe. Maybe I really can’t breathe, no, I shouldn’t think that way, I’m only going to make it worse. Wait, what’s that smell?