Gotta Move

I need to get out of the city.

I've known that for a while now - not least because my boyfriend doesn't and won't live here - but the point was driven home this morning. I got off the bus at the train station, where I change buses every morning on my way to work, and there on the concrete was a purplish-brown splotch, about the size of two hands, that could only be a bloodstain.

I suppose there are any number of explanations for how the ground at Forest Lane Station came to be splashed with blood...but honestly, only one or two seemed very probable - and that's really more to the point than the reality of what happened anyway, isn't it? It's also interesting to me that, though the incident surprised me, it didn't surprise me very much. Not enough.

The chances that the blood on the sidewalk will ever be my blood are, I think, pretty slim. But that cold, queasy feeling - recognizing the splatters on the pavement, and what had almost certainly happened to cause them to be there - it's not something I want to get used to.