The pedestrian

As soon as I've stepped off the bus from work I saw this woman, about sixty years old, standing by the pedestrian lane, sobbing and wiping away her tears after noticing me heading towards her. It's a bit late, an hour past midnight, she kept on rubbing her eyes as she crossed the street when a blue sedan hit her head-on. The body sounded like a heavy tap on a book, just a thud, then her bag found its way across the street, against the stark reflection of the white fluorescents of Mercury Drug. There was no commotion, only hushed conversations from three, four passersby, some locals. A man with a beltbag from a nearby barbecue stand walked slowly towards her, but her skull had been cracked by the impact, and when the corpse was lifted blood dripped, and some sloppy white stuff leaked from it. The pedestrian lane was smeared with red when I crossed the street, and the police asked me if I've seen anything, if they can ask some questions. I only had some will to say I needed sleep (or I was tired) but I gave in and puked by the patrol car's tires, my face throbbing, heavy from the blood in my head, my vomit dry.