I Am Still Here

I'm Still Here

I'm still here.
I'm still watching.
Listening.
I'm still here.

The ground is cold under me. The concrete is solid, little stones digging into my cheek and temple. No one will help me up. They just watch. I don't know how long I am there. Could be a few minutes. Could be hours.

I open my eyes to something cold and wet on my neck. My body is stiff, tense and cold. I put my hand to my head. I feel something warm and wet. Blood. It's on my head, my neck, my hoodie. The black fabric disguises it. The red stands out, angry on my pale skin.

I see what I woke to. A dog. Tufts of fur sticking out at every angle. Bald patches with painful looking skin underneath dotted around. I reach out and touch an ear. She winces slightly, but comes closer.

We walk. Down a road and round a corner. To a house. My house. Round the back. Into the garden. Down to the bottom. A shed sits there, dirty and broken. Inside, a first aid kit. Antiseptic word sting and soothe her wounds. Bandages and surgical tape close the worst of them. The dog is grateful.

We leave the shed. Through the hole in the fence. Back into the street. No one sees. I am glad. She leads me to the park. Into a circle of trees. Puppies. Kittens. A tangle of fur and tails. The mothers call them back. It's okay. I am a friend.

Cuddles. Playtime. Naptime. Goodbye. Back to the street. Back through the fence. Back to the shed. Curl up on the floor. Sleep.

Eyes open. I am still here. The ground is cold under me. The concrete is solid, little stones digging into my cheek and temple. Bigger stones, apples, books thrown at me. One, two, three hit my head. And silence. Black. Nothing.

I am still here. I may be gone, but I am still here. Watching. Listening.

I am still here.