she did not turn directly to anyone, and certainly not to me. she neither spoke to herself, nor to god. she merely was a stammering wound, which had found a voice, and in the darkness of this alley it seemed to break up and create a space around itself where it could bleed without shame or humiliation. the entire time she kept clinging onto my arm, as if to assure herself of my presence. she pressed it with her strong fingers, as if her touch could convey what her words were no longer able to express.