Splat!

For the past several days I’ve been hobbling around with an injured foot. I don’t know why or how I got it. It doesn’t flex properly; it flops and stomps when hitting the ground.

When I have to go outside, I practically dread the experience. I should be resting the foot, but I can’t be stuck at home. As much as I don’t want to, I have some errands to run and must escape the confines of the loft.

As I’m walking down King Street, I pass in front of the Royal Alex theatre and trip on one of the Canada’s Walk Of Fame granite slabs in front of the building. I stumble for a few steps then projectile myself forward, flying through the air. Splat! I hit the ground, splayed.

I get up slowly and brush myself off. My pants weren’t ripped (thankfully) but there is a lot of dust and dirt on my coat. Promptly, I begin to walk down the street and shake my head, loosening any of the pain I would consider thinking about.

By the time I hit University Avenue, I pull my hands out of my pockets and see one of them is covered in blood. Apparently, I cut my hand while kissing the pavement. There are some black bits of tar embedded in my palm. I lick my palm, trying to clean up the mess.

When I’m home, I go up to my bathroom and try to wash away any of the debris. There is still some piece of rock stuck in the skin. I try to remove it, but it doesn’t work. As I change my clothing, I see the fabric of my pants has been wrecked, slashed. I sigh and go on with the rest of my day because I know it can’t get any worse.

And that’s the reason why I don’t like to go outside when I have an injured foot.