My Glamorous Life: in Which I am a Target

As I limped home from Physical Therapy, a man walking in the opposite direction suddenly planted himself directly in front of me and slammed me in the head with a heavy bag. It was a cloth bag, like a backpack with only one strap. I’ve no idea what was inside it : a beat box? a toolbox? Whatever it was, it was heavy and hard and it struck the top and side of my head with stunning force. The man kept walking past me. I said, “Hey! What the fuck?” I’m usually more erudite but my head was buzzing and I couldn’t believe what had just happened. I wheeled around. The man continued to walk away. I had assumed he struck me by accident and would apologize. Wrong on both counts. Glancing over his shoulder, he waved his hand toward me as if batting away a fly. That’s when I knew he was mentally ill and had deliberately attacked me. “Fuck you,” I said, half-hoping he would turn around so I could sock him. He was bigger than me, he was visibly off his meds, and he enjoyed fighting, so this was…