Hurt

Hurt. Scared. Crying.

Pathetic.

She gingerly reached to touch her already swelling ankle. Than shrank back. It hurt. HURT! So did her rear end. She slowly moved side to side to relieve the discomfort. No use. She laid back and let the tears fall. She even gave up wiping at them. No one could hear her. No one cared. No one ever helped.

The sun eclipsed momentarily. She opened her eyes to see a broad-shouldered figure silhouetted in the brightness. She closed her eyes again and put her arm over her face to hide the tear streaks. Before she could move any further, she felt the sun’s warmth again on the uncovered parts of her face; then she felt fingers move lightly across her skin from slightly above the wound to right over top of it. She breathed out a long stream of air to avoid flinching. Through one eye, she watched him pick up her discarded sock. Now she did flinch, inwardly. It was an old soccer sock and was sweaty and full of green grass dust. He straightened it out and wrapped it snuggly over the swelling. She watched him walk to the edge of the woods where he retrieved an old bucket. It must have blown in there during a storm. He brought it over and ever so gently raised her leg to rest on it.

Having taking care of the immediate need, he sat down by her. He smelled so good but she turned her face from him anyway. He didn’t let her get away with it. He sat so close her that she could feel him moving. With care he held her arm away from her face and with a soft, warm cloth that smelled as sweetly as he did, he cleaned her cheeks. When finally she dared to look his way she realized the cloth was his top tee shirt. He held it loosely in his hands that rested atop his knees. He wore a simple white tee and jeans.

“Feeling better?”

“Yes.” It surprised her that she was indeed feeling better. Although everything still hurt, she wasn’t shaking anymore. She hadn’t even noticed the shaking until now that it had stopped.

“Let’s get you out of here then.” He moved to scoop her up.

She rolled to her side to avoid him. “I can do it.” She tried to sound confident. She did manage to get sitting up but when it came to rolling her weight onto her good foot she couldn’t figure out a way to do it. He was watching her, crawling held no dignity.

He chuckled at her efforts and scooped her up anyway. She was sweaty. She was dirty. If she could get past the embarrassment, she knew she would cry again. By the time he reached the steps, a long way from the disabled mower, that’s exactly what she was doing. She wept into a strong chest, and underneath her were very strong arms.

The cloud crossing the sun was just enough to waken her. Slowly awareness of pain seeped into her. Groaning, she rolled to her side and crawled for the woods. She found a strong stick and with the help of her good foot, she broke it down to size. She shed her shirt, exposing her bra and more skin than made her comfortable, and tore it into strips. Once the makeshift splint was in place, she crawled back and pulled herself up with the aid of the mower. She tried putting weight on her bad side and yelped. Hobbling, she turned and reached for the ignition, with her fist, instead of her foot, she hit the mower in just the right place. It stopped its sputtering and roared properly. Only after she painstakingly got into the seat did she notice her sock and sneaker still in the unmowed grass. She struggled down again. Very, very carefully she avoided the misstep that landing her in pain the first time.

She looked across the broad expanse of grass. There was so much she had done but so very much left to do. By the time she had re-mounted the mower, the pain had her back in tears. She had brothers; she had uncles. Why were they never here to help? Through her tears, through her sweat, through her pain, she worked, longing for the sweet smell and the strong arms.