Friday, 18 May 2012

I stepped on his face by accident the first time, with considerably more force and vigour the second. He had fallen backwards, his teeth spiralling upwards from his mouth, followed by a delicate tendril of blood, the kind you usually see in comic books. Having been separated from his senses by a forceful application of knuckle to cranium, I saw my opportunity, and took advantage of the window it afforded me, small as it was. I remember being conscious of the eyes of the people around me being trained solely on me. The combination of confusion and visceral horror offset the pleading in their eyes for something to be done about the situation. I felt the dull thud of his head as it hit the ground near my foot, and I heard the small patter of blood droplets as they hit my shoes. Reflexively I lifted my foot in annoyance, and it came back to rest on the side of his head. I lifted it again and brought all the force I could muster in my heel to bear on his cheekbone. There was a crack, and a small resistance that gave way to a malleability that should not be present in the human skull. I was revolted at the damage I had inflicted. He gurgled and spat blood and saliva in equal proportion. The crowd dissapated in horror, and a lack of willingness to be associated with this kind of behaviour, and a young woman stood up, brushed the glass from her hair and the blood from her face. She walked towards me, and the now unconscious man who had glassed her. She spat on him and slapped me with considerable force. 'The saddest thing is you probably think you were helping...' she said.

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