Crooked Smile (WINNER of the MJFA'S 2017)

Chapter 2 - Michael

Marilyn stood stock-still with shock and fright, her hands clasped over her mouth, looking from the red bicycle to the still figure of the young man, who was lying face down a few feet away, and back to the bicycle. The back wheel was turning slowly. Otherwise, there was neither movement nor sound. Even the crickets seemed to have fallen silent.

"Oh my God!" she whispered. "Oh my God!"

She needed to help him, but she couldn't bring her limps to move.

Get help! Where from? Call the ambulance!How? In her shock, she didn't even know which street she was on.

Look after him! She didn't dare to go near him. She was afraid what she would see, if she did.

Get help!Get help!Get help!

That was the first thing, her mother had always told her: Get help. There was a fleeting moment in which Marilyn wanted to run home and wake her. But although it wasn't far, 15 minutes would pass easily running there, waking her up, explaining the situation, her getting dressed and coming back here. 15 minutes, probably rather 20 minutes, during which he would be lying in the street alone.

She had to ring someone's door.

Which door?Which house?None of them could just be walked up to; they all had high front gates. She would have to just bang her fists against any gate, ring any bell, and ask them to call an ambulance.

She could just have shouted for help. In the silence of the night, she would have been heard for about a mile around.

But she couldn't find her voice.

Then there was a groan and a tiny movement in the young man's shoulders. It broke Marilyn out of her frozen state. Without a conscious decision, she rushed to him and knelt by his left side, touching his back and upper arm. "Sir, are you okay? Can you hear me?"

There was another groan.

"Sir?"

He was lean and long-limped, with a dishevelled afro in brown corduroys and a long-sleeved button-up shirt that might have been off-white. Now it was dirty from the fall. His face was lying in his arms as he had tried to protect his head.

"Yes," he sounded shaken, but he was trying to move, "Yes, I can hear you."

"Oh, thank God!" she breathed. Then she bent closer to him. "Alright, sir. My name is Marilyn. What's your name? Can you tell me your name, sir?"

"Michael. My name is Michael," he said, trying to push himself upright, but having difficulties making a start. His arms were shaking with the effort. His palms and wrists were badly grazed. The pavement had destroyed the skin, and dirt and minor stones had worked themselves into it, while blood, dark and red, was now seeping into the broken tissues.

"Okay, Michael, take it slow. I'll help you, but I don't want to cause you additional pain."

Stiff and with Marilyn's help, he sat up. His right sleeve was torn and his elbow was skinned. On his right knee the thick cord fabric was ripped open and even in the poor light of the streetlamps, Marilyn could see he was bleeding.

She gently rubbed his shoulders. He looked scared and a bit confused, and his breathing was shaky. A thin line of blood was running out of his hair into his right eyebrow. Awkwardly, he reached for his forehead, and then looked bewildered at the blood on his fingertips.

"Michael," she said, trying to get his attention looking him in the eyes, "Michael, I will go and knock someone's door and have them call an ambulance, okay? That was quite a fall, there."