During one of the colder days of the late-winter season, I had witnessed a battered and infectious homeless man amid the Blue Line train, sauntering in-between the seats with a noticeable limb that contained a filthy cast, now rendered useless due an open wound that surpassed the surface of his skin, and thus sinking deeper through muscles and inevitably bone, but not yet. It was about the same size as a softball, only now coated in puss spots, thin veins of dry blood, shiny patches of fresh bleeding, and the rim of the wound now clothed in dirty debris from the outside. It was an engrossing and upsetting scene. Another broken denizen, working mildly at his best to get what he can from the rest of the traveling commuters.
I pretended to be asleep when he came close to me. I was disgusted when I saw the wound up close. From all the inexhaustible snaps and films filled with gore, I was surprised to find myself wincing at the sight. I grinded my teeth like biting into a tough, kinghell of a steak; he was now walking passed me and ended up repeating on the same monologue he gave beforehand: "I am at risk for hypothermia...I am also at risk for amputation...God bless you, and have a wonderful day." His tiring journey then transferred over to the other car via the emergency door, a habit that many disturbing wrongdoers, miasma-infested roamers, and splintered rolling stones have become accustomed to in lieu of patiently waiting for the train to stop very shortly.
Some time into the future I saw him enter the same train car I was in, once again repeating the same process from before - I pretended to play dead once more.
This man had the leg of a zombie, a namesake completely inspired from obvious sources.
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