The supposition is that remembering something objectively bad and frightening might take my mind from the abstractions of anxiety, might alert my skittering heart to the good fortune of being safely in bed. Waiting for an ambulance, on a bench with my head in my hands, my hands filled with bright blood and blood soaked the lap of my jeans and dripped onto my shoes in a way I couldn’t comprehend, because it was coming from my head and was the sort of quantity of blood that suggests death, yet I was alive.Īt night, 15 years on, I force myself to remember this. When he had finished pummeling my head he disappeared, and I ran out of the bushes towards a taxi rank which was the only source of help in a deserted little town. Fifteen years ago, a homeless man in Australia took against me one night when I was walking home on my own, and he pummeled my head with an unidentifiable object while I, hands on head, scrambled-ill-advisedly, I can see that now-into a small clearing under some bushes.
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