As night pulls its dark hood over my eyes, I crouch against the broken wall once again. A deep sadness stirs within— not exactly self pity. I don't cry. I'm beyond crying. Is my face starting to look like some of the faces I've seen? Are my eyes hollow, hopeless? Or is that still to come?
I press my makeshift bag close to my side, as if the items within still have some worth. In the middle of the night, when I'm not sleeping anyway, I unbind my foot, rummage through my bag, and pull out a piece of glass. Ironic. From the folds of my rags, I take out the stolen pliers. The wound on my foot is already sticking together. I have to reopen it by slicing my flesh with the glass. I bite down so hard I expect my teeth to crack, but keep sawing the wound open until blood runs freely down my heel. I press the pliers in, deeper and deeper, going after the fragment with the tenacious savagery of a shark. Through the handle of my tool, I feel the metal hit the hard glass. I have to worm around it, wriggling in sideways, to get any purchase. My teeth grind against each other, caging the scream. I get the blunt nose of the pliers under the glass, and pry. A whimpering protest sneaks up my throat. I force it into a low growl. I dig deeper, use more pressure from underneath. The pain is nerve deep, stabbing, pulling. All at once, with a sickening sound of suction, the glass comes up. It pops out of my flesh and splats on the pavement in a gooey red puddle. I slump against the concrete. Breathe. It's done.
Done, except for the free-flow of blood. When I feel it start to drip off my toes, I make myself sit upright and pay attention. I dig around in my bag and bring out some rags. A whole handful is soaked red in a frighteningly short amount of time. Swearing softly, I pinch the wound closed. The skin surrounding it is hot to touch. I suppress a groan as the weight of that fact sinks in. My mind flutters to the man maybe twenty feet down the wall— the one with stumps instead of legs. Did his problems start with a simple piece of glass in his foot? I immediately dismiss myself as being overly dramatic. I'm tired, hungry, and frustrated. I need to rest. I hold the pressure on my wound for a while, then bind it tightly in more rags. I stow the pliers and glass. Time to sleep. Sleep will make everything better. I'm sure of it.