The Injury Report

So in the past two months I have sustained what I like to term medium injuries from skating, or more to the point, showing off.

Empty stomach, lonely eyes full of acid drop dreams and the newly found hollowed heart push toe to heel away from the providential hell that some bitch that left me thinks is hers. On a bus with a crazy 180 degree turn to a 270 degree view to me burning urethane on the ground. Knees deep, the autumn late breezes warm against my stubbly face, Lexapro unofficially drains as the gradients become more and more. The smoothness, the friction, that sound like draining water or thunder before the storm is perfection unleashed tickling mine ears. Velocity increasing I make deliberate, cursive zigzags between the medians and spit a mouthful of spit on a Mercedes as it drives by. All this rush, the twinkling color in the sky, sensations of the calves, muscles quaking, cell division felt, the blood centrifuged from my rapid beating heart out my eyes swirling through my brain is mere preparation for the steep fall down Clayton before me.
"Ughhh," I grunt viscerally as I dig urethane against cement shoving my weight and my heels to the ground.

After the speed achievement check, all the poetic language stops.

Push, push against warm stubborn ground till I get up past Shrader.

Some lady is having trouble parallel parking I can see. She's coming in too acute or obtuse, I can't figure which. She's driving an automatic for what seems like the first time. She throws it into drive and sways almost across two lanes and clips me going backside. I fall long and landing on my left hip scraping against the rocky edge of the cement, then hit my head hard enough that I am zonked out.
I'm sprawled out in the middle of the intersection, my beanie has flown off my head and my skate lay underneath a truck, the wheels still spinning. I look up and the lady who clipped me along with a few other strangers are huddled around me.
"Are you hurt," this young lady asks me, seeing full well that I passed out.
"Yeah," I say not remembering at all what went down.
"Call hospital, 9-1-1," the lady who hit me says.
Lifting my head off the ground, I reach my hands to the back of my head, feeling a large goose bump on the top of my skull.
"No blood, that's good," I say looking at my hands. "What happened?"
"You hit your head on the street after that lady hit you," some guy says helping me to my feet.
"Where's my skate?"
"Here," this homeless man says handing it to me.
"Thanks," I say feeling wooziness. I turn to the lady who hit me and put my hand on her shoulder. She's shaking and obviously very scared. "No 9-1-1. Just take me to my house and I'll get your insurance information."
The relief in this dumb bitch's posture annoys me. I can tell she doesn't give a fuck if I'm alright, just that she doesn't get an increase in her insurance.

From that moment till the moment I'm at the top step of my apartment is blurry. The insurance information from the lady who clipped me was in hand, but I had no idea how I had gotten home, what I was doing at home or why I was there. My roommate comes walking down the hall and says I don't look so good. She says I look grey, pallid as the walls, like I'm going to be sick. She takes me to the hospital and they tell me I've got a concussion and I can't skate for six weeks. Fat fucking chance, I thought.