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I remember the feeling of rough skin over knuckles slamming into my face. The first blow was the worst, like one of those large firecrackers that some states have banned going off in my hand, only it was my eye. God I wished it was my hand instead. After that first intensive burst of pain, the rest of the hits just seemed weak, like half the water had already spilled out of the dam. I fell to the ground, my hands slamming into cold concrete and broken glass. I saw his shoes, I remember being so curious of them as he continued to beat me. One, I think his left shoe, was an old Air Jordan someone had probably thrown away years ago. The other was red, bright like the blood spilling from my lip. It had dingy green shoelaces, I couldn't help but think it was some sick Christmas joke.
His pants looked like they had been washed in the sludge that coats the bottom of an oil pan from some jalopy. Through the holes in the knees, I could see his scared skin. He must have spent half his time crawling, looking for his next fix as he scrapped his knees on the floor of some meth den. I never looked an further up, even when that red and green shoe slammed into my face. With the last hint of sunlight of a December night, I saw the picture across the street, low in a store front window. I couldn't look at him any more, I could only see the woman in a silver tooled frame.
Her eyes drew me in. How could I make out her details from so far away? How could I count the flecks of turquoise around her pupils? How could I not think of any thing else but the picture of a woman I never met.
Daylight faded as the street lamps started to lightly glow. Their shadow fell over us as he reached into my pocket with a bloody hand. A hand made bloody from my face. Then it was dark, all accept for her, the woman in the picture. She was standing before me. Her arms were crossed over her chest, those blue eyes peering into my soul.
"I've been waiting for you."
What could I say?
"Sleep now and remember......"
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