The 10th of August in Scarborough

I've always known I'll die alone. That's why I'm so angry to find myself bleeding to death on the pavement surrounded by about two hundred people in various states of alarm.

The paramedic holding the bag over me is in a calm state of alarm. Her eyes are intense, light brown, and she's very serious. She's in her 20s and I wonder if I'd find her pretty if I wasn't bleeding to death.

Someone dragged over another person... I feel like there are people lying all around me, dying. It's eleven o'clock in the morning on a... on a Friday and it's August and I'm in Scarborough, outside the mall... I can hear myself narrating in my head. Why, Jesus Christ? I can't feel my limbs and I wonder how I'm still breathing, yet somehow the narrating never stops.

"Hold that," the paramedic says to another woman. I have to get out of here. I tried to say something when she first caught up with me and made me lie down, but she ignored me. Pretty soon I didn't feel like I could get up again anyway. But--

"I have to go," I say, feeling ashamed.

"Just hold on," the girl mumbles, ripping open a package of something white. I want to go. I can't be here. This is crazy. They can't be putting that on me. This is just getting worse. Everything is getting worse.

There was a noise, I heard the noise and I thought a tiny thought for a split second that the escalator was breaking down, and then I saw the ceiling start to collapse.

But it's August and it's a chilly day, like it's September already... I think it's just like fall... I think it's just like when the twin towers went down... which also strikes me as wrong, cheesy somehow, like it'd be in a bad poem. The leaves are green but the air is brisk, and it smells like exhaust. If I could get out of here I'd go for a run. I turn my head.

To my left across the concrete is an old guy, his work shirt sticking to his ribs with watery blood. His eyes are closed. He looks like he's sleeping. I'm telling myself how cliche that is when he opens his eyes, rolls his head over and looks right at me.

He doesn't say anything. Then he says, "You look like hell!"

This is crazy. Jesus, could that siren be any louder? It's not enough that I'm apparently bleeding all over the sidewalk, they want to burst my eardrums too. Even once it's turned off, I have no idea what to say to this old guy.

"You haven't got any right to talk!" I say. I can't take this. I stare at the guy for something to do. He has a thick face and a beard and looks like he'd be married to somebody frumpy. He looks like the minister of the church I went to with my grandmother as a kid. Or like the old guy who stocks shelves at the grocery store.

"I'm Roger," he says.

"I'm Neil," I say. "Can't shake." Eleven o'clock, Friday the 10th, Scarborough Mall collapses, my mind says. Paramedics rush to the scene. I look around again. The building over the hump of my white-swathed belly looks messed up, like a kid built it. I can see the big windows of Sears still standing up there, but over to the right it's crumpled, really carelessly. I feel angry again.

"This isn't supposed to be happening," I tell Roger. He's getting his clothing cut open with a pair of blunt scissors.

"Tell me about it," he says. "I'm supposed to be at the dentist's right now. I have a tooth that's killing me."

"I'm freaking pissed," I say, really angry. Really angry. "I am not dying today."

The paramedic says something, and I don't catch it but I think it's something stupid. I feel she's stupid, and I'm not sure why.

He has a tooth that's killing him?

I look at Roger again. This is ridiculous, this is insane. "How's your tooth feel now?" I ask. His face looks so pink against the concrete.

I'm ashamed to say it but I had a dream... it was just a dream, I remember. I was twelve years old. I dreamed I was dying, alone somewhere... the feeling of where wasn't very strong, but the feeling of being alone was very strong, and when I woke up I just knew I'd die alone. I knew it like you know you're hungry, or tired, or know you're going to be in trouble when you get home.

But it was a dream and I was 12 years old. Now I'm 27 and I'm dying surrounded by people.

"We need to get him in before he loses any more..." the girl is saying, and Roger is laughing, and I feel very light. It's the 10th of August in Scarborough and I am not dying alone.