The After Shock
By Vuong Tong
I am lying on my back. Every muscle in my body is sore and bruised; my head is throbbing.
What just happened? My right eye uncontrollably blinks as I feel a stabbing pain behind it. Tears
blur my vision. I close my eyes to relieve the sporadic blinks. Am I still alive? I can hear the
hum of a fan, but I can’t feel any breeze. As I turn to the side, I hear a soft squeak and I realize
that I’m on my bed. Sliding my left hand across the surface, I find comfort in the cool thin
sheets. My hand locates a soft large pillow placed behind my head and I squeeze it. I cringe.
Should I go out and face them? Why did they do this to me?
I reach into my pockets, looking for the evidence that I was not dreaming. I discover some lint
at the bottom of my pocket. But where is my cell phone? Did I lose that, too? I open my left
eye and I glance around the room. The light blue walls and ceiling calm me. Deep breaths. I look
to my left and search the surface of my table. I spot my black wristwatch and notice a deep
crack on the face. The plastic must have been 3 millimeters thick. Did it save me?
My left hand reaches out across the table and I accidentally knock some items to the floor. I
hear nothing. No response. I find my cell phone and flip it open. I stare at the call list. 9-1-1.
3:46 pm. Friday, May 25th. I am slowly absorbing the reality that I have just been assaulted. I
shut my eyes. My body tenses up. I am home.
I hear distant indistinguishable chatter. I slowly open my eyes. My right eye feels swollen. I
grab a tissue on my table and roll it into a ball. I cram it into my eye, pushing back the tears as
if I were pushing back this reality. Another deep breath. My ribs ache. I open my mouth but
hesitate when I hear a click, crack, and pain on the left of my jaw. I discover that I cannot open
my mouth all the way. A fist must have landed there. Listening to the hum of the fan, thoughts
stray. I must remember what happened.
I open my mouth as wide as I can. A splitting pain shoots up my jaw across the side of my
face. Tears well up. I move my fingers across my cut and swollen face. Thoughts resurface. I
can still taste the blood in my mouth, the metallic and rusty trace. I remember three kids,
and just me, a block away from my home. Punches. The hot asphalt ground. Kicks and yelling.
A stopped car. And then silence. I can remember.