The Fall

It was then...at the exact moment of my foolishness, I fell, falling over my bike seat, tumblin forward, while the bike when over the concrete curb with the back wheel falling straight down on my legs. I lay there in a daze, wondering what exactly had just happened. I remembered cycling from the swimming complex back home and as I entered the side road that would lead to the drop off point down my tenement block, the tires of my bike came too close to the curb, I skidded for a while, and despite years of cycling to and fro and even being able to cycle with one hand, I fell.
The forceful impact left me shaken. I lay on the ground for a while, in a daze. When I got up, my legs buckled and shivered instinctively, trying to recover from the impact. My mind was swirling, and my stomach groaned. The vigorous swimming I had done earlier had left me in nausea, and the fall just now, made it even worst. I was going to vomit, I knew it. I stumbled forward, lumbering the heavy mass of the bike up from the mangled heap in was in. I straightened it out and got onto the seat. I could not stand for long. The nausea was taking a toll on me. Slowly and painfully, I pedaled onwards to the drop of point. The rug-sack on my back slipped off. I let it fall to the ground. And after attempting to rest my bike against the wall for a few times, I gave up. I just let it fall to the ground again. And in a fit of exhaustion and pain, I collapsed on the bench, letting the nausea get over me.
As I sat there slump, I examined myself for fractures. There were none. But there were wounds. The rough ground I had fallen upon was rough. And because of that, part of the skin on my right palm was scrapped upwards in a sickly yellow dead-skin colour. The part of the right feet before my little toe was bleeding. The skin there had split open, and out came jam-coloured blood. Damn that stupid sharp slipper strap of mine. The blood was dirtied with soil and sand from the road too, a combination that I clearly hated.
All along my lower leg was other superficial cuts and scratches while on my left hand there were bruises.
The nausea was just getting worse, and it would get worst if I did not eat my lunch soon and ease the hunger that I could not feel but I knew was there.
With another burst of determination I struggled to my feet, picked up my bag and my bike, before finally pushing it to the lift lobby. My bones hurt and the wounds screamed of pain. I held on firmly to the handle of the bike. The vomiting sensation grew and soon it was making me disabled. I struggled on with the unbearable pain, enduring the worst, before finally getting everything into the lift. Before I knew it, I was back in my cozy, warm house. Lying on the carpet, too tired and too in pain to even place my bike properly. The muscles strained with spasms. The vomiting sensation subsided finally, but I knew it would come back the moment I stood or even sat upright.
My father who was nagging that I should be wearing a helmet and that he suspected that I was speeding down the road when to my bloody wound and placed a plaster over it. I was too tired and exhausted to protest that i should wash the wound first. Furthermore, I did not like putting on plasters for wounds. That would be something that my father would tease me about, but yet he was putting on a plaster over it. The wound must be pretty bad.
Finally after resting my stomach for a while, I got up for my lunch which I ate slowly and bit-by-bit. The plastered wound was really bloody, I noticed when I took a look at it. The plaster was very much drenched in blood, had I washed my wound first, the water would very much be red...