Struck

We were struck, left for dead. Struck, knocked over, and our assailant zoomed away, and we wander in the wake, dazed, white-faced. What happened? Who did this to us? But we have no idea. We're out of ideas, and dying of internal injuries, our insides pooling with blood …

Our last words: is it time for them? Last words, but it's only bubbles of blood that speak; only blood trickling from the corners of our mouths.