She stood there, staring blankly at the rusty tracks of the
subway, listening intently for the sound of the next train
coming. She heard the train on the tracks behind her
approaching and wondered what it would feel like if she
jumped out in front of her own when it finally got there,
whether being crushed by the large machine would be more or
less painful than just getting on it and doing whatever
boring shit it was that she was supposed to be doing with
her life. 
She inched closer to the tracks and gasped silently. There,
wedged between the closest track and the wall was her own
head, bruised and bloody beyond reckoning, staring up at her
through the slit of one eyelid. She stared at it, marvelling
its quiet, peaceful condition. Imagining the pain that would
be no more if it really were her head down there.
But she felt pity too, pity for the head, in its peaceful
rest. The next train would come soon and disturb its
positioning.
It was in its final resting spot.
It should not be bothered.
Not after what it had been through.
It would be a disgrace for it to be disturbed… So there
was only one thing she could do. She lay on her stomach, her
bare skin touching the cold tiles of the floor, and she
reached out to gently remove the head from its spot next to
the tracks. But her hand moved away from it suddenly and she
felt nauseous as sickeningly pale arms closed in around her
waist. She scrabbled and scratched at the man, trying to get
away and managing only to fall to the floor and crawl to the
nearest corner in the underground hallway, the underground
hallway that had once seemed empty but was now found to be
full of people. People gaping at the naked woman curled up
in the filthy corner of the grubby little station and
screaming “Don’t touch me you sick fuck. Don’t you
ever touch me again you disgusting rotten excuse for a human
being… fucking cops. FUCK OFF”
The cop was talking into his radio now, she noticed. She had
known this to often be a bad sign and took advantage of the
huge space between her and all the sad, pitiable people who
were too dumb to do anything but stare in pathetic sympathy
at her. She ran.
She ran fast.
She ran up the subway steps and onto the streets of
Manhattan. She ran past tourists and locals and taxis and
buses and all the other shit that corrupted and contaminated
the already mangy streets of the Bronx. She ran past all the
people infected with sanity and happiness and love and sex
and education. She ran and she ran and she ran until she
found herself surrounded by the comfortable darkness of one
of her favourite alleyways of all time. Moss alley, given
its name simply because of its walls which were covered in
(oddly enough) moss, spreading out along the crumby floor.
It was a comfortable place to sleep and therefore a popular
place to do so. She poked around the bodies that lay there
until she found a spot of vacant moss bedding, and curled up
to finally sleep.