An image

An image. Something in that image has woven itself into the outer edges of my thoughts, imprinted itself there, returning again and again to the forefront of my mind.

I walked down the middle of the street, past the great iron eagle and towards the fish market. It was night time, the darkness lit by the street lights that hang tremulously from cables above our heads. And there was rain; full, heavy raindrops filling the air and making the streets gleam and shimmer. People everywhere, most with umbrellas and coats drawn close around them, walking at full speed towards the happy promise of warmth and shelter. There was one person who wasn't walking; she wasn't walking but crawling. She was crawling because she can't walk. She can't walk because her unshod feet are twisted and swollen and deformed into fleshy lumps of uselessness. She cleaves her path down the centre of that street. None of us stop. None of us look. Perhaps because we simply don't want to see. And yet my stomach leapt up into my throat when I saw that and now I see it all the time, in quiet moments, whether I want to or not.