Without Help

It doesn't hurt exactly, but I can feel it, and it feels very wrong.

Once hidden tissues are pressing out of the gaping wound at my throat. It seems as if my head is hanging on by a thread.
I stand on the street. It bears an air of abandonment, this road that leads off the beaten path. It appears as if I am in a gray and weary industrial park. There is however, a scant trickle of pedestrians, and I am eager for them to notice and help me. I see a black woman and her little girl. They have learned to mind their own business under all conditions. All the same I hope
they will veer of course and help me.

I want to ask for help, call out to someone, but it is impossible to speak with a slit throat. No one notices me. No one who notices cares.

I watch an elderly Mexican gentleman peddle something to passers by. I can’t tell what he is selling but I watch on urgently. I listen intently to his chit chat with the occasional customer hoping that someone will eventually see that I need medical attention.
They are very wrapped in their business, their gossip. They tend to it eagerly. I am loosing a great deal of blood. I’m a horrid mess, but they only glance at my face while relating some
trivial bit of data about weather or politics or what they do for a living.