Bruise

There’s a bruise on my wrist. I hold it up in the light and wiggle my hand back and forth

slowly. A dull pain shoots up my arm. How did that happen? I wiggle my wrist again. Again,

pain. I peer closer at the blueish, purple smudge, nestled between the other dark patches

and wrinkles all over my hand. I don’t remember it looking like that, so I check my other

hand. That one is wrinkled too, but not bruised. Instead, there’s a watch with a golden face. I

study it carefully. It’s ten minutes to three. That means something, I think, but I can’t quite

recall what. Should I be somewhere right now? I turn to the man beside me to ask, but he

doesn’t look up from his phone. I reach out to tug his coat, but before I can, someone

reaches over and grabs my wrist firmly. I let out a scream because that hurt! The hand lets

go and a woman exclaims ‘Oh, I’m sorry!’ She frowns at me, the corner of her mouth turned

down. ‘I forgot about your arm’. She reaches out again and this time takes my other hand in

hers to tug me to my feet. She leads me to a bus and speaks to me slowly. ‘Look, Mum, this

is us.’ I nod, because I understand now. We were sitting at a bus stop and now we’re getting

on the bus. I’m glad to have sorted that out. I shuffle forward at her encouragement. Behind

me the doors close, and I glance back at the bus stop to see a man watching me through the

window. I’m not sure why he’s frowning, so I wave at him. For some reason that makes my

wrist hurt and when I peer down at it, I notice a dark bruise. How did that happen? The

woman helps me to a seat just before the bus starts moving and sits next to me. She is

smiling at me now, but I refuse to smile back. I stare out of the window instead, trying to

figure out where I am. Because I am almost entirely sure I don’t have a daughter. And I don’t

know where I’m going.