Because I write a great many things which do not go anywhere. This is as good a place as any:
The Zyphoid Process
She punched him as hard as she could. He felt her fist land just below his ribs. It hurt like hell. He couldn’t breathe.
He felt her fist land, centred just below his ribs, right on that bone – the one whose name he could never remember, except that it started with a “z”. It hurt like hell and he remembered in first aid class how they were all told to be careful when doing the Heimlich manoeuvre. If you went too high, you could hit that bone which extends like a tab between the bottom of the ribs and starts with the letter “z”. You could hit that bone and break it off.
He could hear her crying. Turning around to leave. She was walking away.
He thought about the bone snapping off from the breastbone and floating around his chest. He tried to remember first aid class. Did it lacerate the heart, or puncture the lungs?
He thought about that sharp fragment of bone, severed and misplaced, floating about his chest. He thought about that jagged, errant satellite orbiting his vitals. What was that tickle in his chest?
He couldn’t breathe and he thought about a sharp fragment of bone floating around his chest and slicing open his heart.
By the time the pain subsided and he thought to open his eyes, the hallway was empty and she was half a block away.