Monday night I twisted my ankle.
Tuesday morning it felt better.
I decided to go for a run. It was raining.
No sooner had I shut my door behind me, I realized I locked myself out of my house.
Oh well, might as well just go for a run and see if anyone is awake by the time I get back.
Two minutes into my run my ankle spontaneously gave out on me.
It didn’t hurt.
My run became an epic, frantic, skin-breaking slide through the gravel and mud.
The rocks tore through my palm, gushing blood and exposing muscle.
I ripped rocks out of my hand, yanked the sock off my foot and wrapped up my wound.
So much for a run. I turned around and walked back home.
No one answered the door at home. No one answered their phones.
I had to clean my wound at a neighbor’s house.
For now, screaming helps.