the threads in her head

You're cold.

Cold like a fish. Cold like a fish out of water with a cold wind blowing. Cold fish. Cold stinky fish. Cold stinky festering fish. You might as well really be one, the way people are avoiding you like the plague.

And the rain keeps on drumming down down down, silver drops of water against a flimsy dark blue windbreaker. The windbreaker almost clings to your skin, and you can feel the weight of wet water on your arm, but it's not seeping through the material. It's just a strangely cool feeling on your arm, and drops of water falling on your forehead, drip drip, onto your glasses, down your forehead, along the curvature of your cheek.

A tin can is grasped firmly in your hand, wet stickers littering the edges of the can. "Sir, would you mind donating.. Ma'am, would you.. Ms, would you mind". A choking suffocating feeling is at your chest, it's hard to breathe, it's so hard to breathe. It's almost you can just black out at any moment, so almost giddy you are. Yes, almost, because you're not on the point of the world spinning and all, but it's such a uncomfortable pressure at your head, not heavy, but a light numb pressure.

And the lungs hurt. Each word starts taking more effort, the pain at the chest increasing whenever you utter words, pushing breath out through your mouth to form what should be understood as English.

But in the eyes of those you might as well be mute, a part of the scenery.

I shall not deny there was nice people, people who donated, people who at least gave an apologetic smile, people who acknowledged your presence.

But what irked me was those who looked past you, who could not recognise you, or who went, "give me a break".

Why don't you give me a break instead. I'll pass you my can, you help me sell flags.

And I'll sit down and nurse that painful pressure at my chest and head, that ache in my back, the slight heaving in my stomach, the almost ready-to-puke feeling way down in my stomach, which could, if induced, well up the back of the throat and spill out as disgusting sour vomitus.

And then I shall really be cold stinky festering fish.