She was lying on the ground in the exhaust-tainted dirt beneath the overpass. Thin lines of blood had run down from a wound on the back of her head and congealed in her dark hair like rust stains. She looked like a parody of a ballerina, feet set apart, one arm extended, fallen where not even weeds would grow. She lay there face down as a black Lexus passed by without slowing. A blue Prius splashed her with the water and antifreeze that had collected in the gutter. There were no birds to herald it nor poets to record the sight, but the first rays of the morning were beginning to pierce the lattice curtain of the looming highrises. There were no cars passing when she finally stirred.
The girl stretched, winced, and touched the bruised and bloodied place at the back of her skull. She was dizzy, and her head was filled with a dull throb like hammer blows through a mattress, but she sat up. She saw a small backpack lying beside the imprint of her hand in the soft ground. Inside, there were two books, a ball of lip balm, a scrunchie, a scarf, and a twenty dollar bill. She could tell it was fall getting on towards winter because of the leaves on the cracked sidewalk and the cold. She twisted the scarf around her neck and found a pin in the pocket of her army jacket. It was a big brooch with a picture in the center. Its thin lines swam and bled together before her eyes, but she thought it was the image of an angel.
She stood and looked down the road in both directions. To her right, the sunlight shone hard as a knife's edge on towers of glass. To her left, there was the soft, dim, comforting embrace of the unbroken shadows. On the right, away to the north and west, a girl danced on an extra-large billboard. Her breasts, large as hills, hawked handbags to passersby. To the southeast, there was brick and mortar and broken glass glittering on the sidewalks like blades honed from diamonds. Somewhere, on some back porch, rooftop, or balcony, beside some open window, a radio was playing. An old spiritual, fuzzy with static, wafted down to the sidewalk like the smell of cooking. She could just make out the words:
The Lord spoke to Gabriel; fare you well; fare you well.
“Go look behind the altar;” fare you well; fare you well.
“Take down your silver trumpet;” fare you well; fare you well.
“Blow your trumpet, Gabriel;” fare you well; fare you well.
'Gabriel,' she thought. That's what I'll call myself. No, that's a boy's name. It'll have to be 'Gabriela.'
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Murray sat on his torn arm chair, looking out of the sole window of his apartment. He could tell that today would be a bad one; the silence was beginning to make him anxious already. The gray icy mixture that covered Mercy Road and its surrounding area made everything look more depressing than usual.
ReplyDeletePulling a gray sweatshirt over his head, Murray stepped into the hallway and almost tripped over a little kid who was being swallowed up by an over-sized suit.
He is always alone. Dangerous in this place..
Murray took the stairs. He figured if he exercised he could smoke more. Murray stepped outside and lit a cigarette to combat the cold air.
A girl walking ahead of him caught his eye. She was dirty, but sort of pretty. He decided to follow her. As she slithered down the sidewalk, Murray became captivated by her dark hair and bulky jacket.
He smelled a sharp odor. Alcohol.
Murray turned into the liquor store and found a small bottle of SeaGram Gin. He fumbled for the four crumpled dollar bills that were hiding deep in his pocket.