Broken Fingers
19 August 2003
She breaks all five fingers of her left hand by falling on the bank of grass on the path up to the college. She sits in the grass with the sun in her eyes and her fingers throbbing and numb. She waits for someone to come.
She prepares herself by nursing her hand and crying a little, but it doesn't hurt that much and even though her fingers are broken she feels like she's faking. In the distance she hears a man with a dog but he doesn't pass her way, and she doesn't shout out because that would be stupid.
After a while of listening to the birds, she realises that she can't get up, or just doesn't want to. She thinks she must be in shock, but she doesn't feel shocked. She plays over in her mind what she'll say to her mother when she calls her from the hospital. Then she plays over in her mind what she'll say to the next passing stranger.
She begins to wonder if anyone walks this way on a Saturday. A butterfly alights on a crease in her jeans just below her right knee. She watches it for a while. It's white with dark spots. She wonders what it's like to be a butterfly. If the butterfly sniffs out flowers, if the flowers make the butterfly feel hungry. The grass moves in a brief push of air, and the butterfly lifts away.
She remembers she was on her way to the stop to catch a bus in to town, to buy a dress or a top or something for the summer. She tries to plan around not doing that. She'll have to do it on Monday. But her hand will be in plaster. She imagines she will only be able to carry one bag. She will still be able to write. She won't be able to type. She'll have trouble opening the front door, and getting into her purse.
She thinks maybe her friends will buy her some flowers or chocolate. Her mother will fuss. She wonders if they'll make her stay at work if she can't type, or if they'll give her a few days off. She'll be able to finish reading that Stephen King if they do.
She knows her weekend is shot. She'll spend the rest of the day in A & E watching legs and heads being prioritised. She hopes she has change for the drinks machine, that someone will be there to help her if she can't get her purse out of her bag. She hopes she won't be there until night when the drunks start coming in.
She hears the man calling his dog in the distance. The dog barrels out of the trees on the far side of the path. He turns mid-air, pauses, ears cocked as the man calls again. He kicks up dust with his exit.
She imagines how the dog would cope without one paw. Loping along on three legs distracting shoppers and making children laugh in the high street. She thinks she'd really prefer to be a dog, because a dog wouldn't have to worry about typing, and getting change out of a purse.
The man doesn't come past. No one comes past. She sits with her head in the sun and eventually she climbs to her feet, and nursing her hand, she makes her way home.
Copyright © 19 August 2003
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