Hidden

No matter how much my mind desired death, my body refused to give it to me, and soon instincts kicked in.

Somehow, I manage to stagger to my feet, fighting off the darkness. I stumbled forward, out the front door, and tripped over the porch, falling on the concrete sidewalk. I landed awkwardly on my forearms. I denied the blackness of unconsciousness, and managed to lurch across the lawn onto the road.

I looked back, and the old man was watching me, loathing for me filled in his furious eyes. "Come back here, shithead! Lemme finish you off!"

I felt my eyes go out of focus, and I nearly fell again. I took a few more jolting steps before sitting gingerly on the curb.

There was blood all over me; on my face, in my hair, on both arms. Breathing was a chore, as painful and wretched as the monster that inflicted it upon me.

My mind's lucidity was returning to me, and then I realized that if I showed up on the bus as I was, bloody and beaten, that they would notice me. Even the most unknown couldn't show up with thick, caked-on blood and expect to remain unnoticed. The bus driver would be required by law to help.

And that would attract attention.

And I didn't want that. That was the last thing I wanted.