Shod feet hitting pavement at regular intervals; rhythm matches heavy breathing. Or perhaps the other way around. Sweat running down sides of face and body, accumulating in all the normal places: visible show of my extended exertion. Thoughts running ahead, planning, looking around corners and under rocks.
*POP* felt and heard.
Hands on the ground, “holy shit” on my tongue. Half crawl used to move the remaining hundred yards to my house.
Ice.
Wrap.
Elevation.
“Shit shit shit fuck” pushed through clenched teeth.
Doctors.
30-minute surgery two and a half years later, a real in-and-out job of scraping and cutting and a few thick stitches.
I can walk up stairs again.
I don’t run anymore.
Gaaah, that hurt… you write pain well. It always seems to be accompanied by words like “shit” and “fuck.”
It’s true. I remember smashing my finger between a metal shelf and a 40lb box at the UPS hub and dropping the word “fuck” like it was hot. Sometimes it’s the only word that one can spit out when they’re seeing stars.
I’m told that after I fell and broke my arm, I treated the whole neighborhood to a sequence of yelled f-bombs. I think my brain was trying to yell for help, but my mouth had other ideas.
I totally get what you’re saying there.