how can I keep you safe? how can I keep you close?
quickly - something I wrote tonight, just before my phone rang.
it happened very quickly. we were standing on a corner, waiting for the light to change. the red hand on the other side of the street was shining brightly at us, and we waited. we pressed the button, and waited. a lull in traffic, and a man in a suit next to me darted out into the street. his suit was black, expensive looking. maybe he had someplace to be, maybe every second he stood on the corner waiting, waiting with us, maybe all those seconds would have made him more late than he could afford.
he ran out into the street, putting his right hand out to tell cars to stop, but it went unnoticed. it was big and black, and an suv probably, or a truck. the man didn’t fly over the hood like in the movies. there was no shattered windshield, no near-cheerful tinkle of broken glass, just a thud, so dull and thick I could feel it in my throat. everything stopped for a moment, and the car didn’t move, and the man lay bleeding, and all of a sudden, a woman screamed. a woman screamed, and the man lying in his own blood in the crosswalk started to scream, and it was a scream of terror, not of pain. maybe, in his death, he couldn’t feel what had happened anymore. but his face was covered in blood, and it pooled in his eyes, and he couldn’t move, and he screamed.
my first instinct was to run. not to him, not into the arms of the person I was with, but to run. to move my body in a way everyone around knew he never would again. I wanted to run, and scream myself, maybe throw up at the sight of blood, bone, brain, bits of teeth. but he moved his hand, his right hand, and he was crying loudly, and I did run, but not away. I ran to him. I ran to him and I held his hand in mine, and people looked on, amazed. sirens were faint in the distance, and he looked up at me, so afraid.
I couldn’t tell which were tears, and which were blood, and they were the same probably, and I touched his face. I touched his cheek, and his forehead, and his nose, and his chin, and my hands, my clothes were sticky with blood. I thought about amy hempel’s story, and the man says to the girl, ‘you’ll be fine but my sweater is ruined.’ and it was almost the same, only I knew, he knew, we knew he wouldn’t be fine. he cried, but didn’t stop looking at me. he didn’t want to be alone, and I let him look at me through his blood, and spit, the ropes of mucous from his broken nose, tears, the smell of urine and vomit.
he gripped my hand so hard I thought maybe he wanted to take it with him, and I thought maybe I would let him. he squeezed his eyes shut, his breath shaky, and solitary. more blood came, and police were setting up tape around us, yellow and black to keep away the crane-necked crowds. my companion stood in shock, saying my name over and over, staring at me all covered in the horrific gore of someone else’s death, but I didn’t look away from the man in the suit. for a minute I wondered whether he had run into traffic on purpose, or if he just misjudged the distance of the next car. I wondered if he could still see me, or feel my hand there in his. the man in the suv was crying, crying with his head in his hands, leaning against the wheel of his enormous car. I wanted to hold his hand too, but the man so close my face cried out in pain, and looked at me fiercely (I knew he could see me, then) before relaxing his muscles, and his breathing. for a moment he was whole again, before his eyes glazed over and he left, and his body gave way to the parts of death they don't show in the movies. he moved his bowels, at no fault of his own; I felt for him the shame he couldn’t feel in his own death, and I began to cry as the paramedics pulled the stranger’s hand away from mine.
it happened very quickly. we were standing on a corner, waiting for the light to change. the red hand on the other side of the street was shining brightly at us, and we waited. we pressed the button, and waited. a lull in traffic, and a man in a suit next to me darted out into the street. his suit was black, expensive looking. maybe he had someplace to be, maybe every second he stood on the corner waiting, waiting with us, maybe all those seconds would have made him more late than he could afford.
he ran out into the street, putting his right hand out to tell cars to stop, but it went unnoticed. it was big and black, and an suv probably, or a truck. the man didn’t fly over the hood like in the movies. there was no shattered windshield, no near-cheerful tinkle of broken glass, just a thud, so dull and thick I could feel it in my throat. everything stopped for a moment, and the car didn’t move, and the man lay bleeding, and all of a sudden, a woman screamed. a woman screamed, and the man lying in his own blood in the crosswalk started to scream, and it was a scream of terror, not of pain. maybe, in his death, he couldn’t feel what had happened anymore. but his face was covered in blood, and it pooled in his eyes, and he couldn’t move, and he screamed.
my first instinct was to run. not to him, not into the arms of the person I was with, but to run. to move my body in a way everyone around knew he never would again. I wanted to run, and scream myself, maybe throw up at the sight of blood, bone, brain, bits of teeth. but he moved his hand, his right hand, and he was crying loudly, and I did run, but not away. I ran to him. I ran to him and I held his hand in mine, and people looked on, amazed. sirens were faint in the distance, and he looked up at me, so afraid.
I couldn’t tell which were tears, and which were blood, and they were the same probably, and I touched his face. I touched his cheek, and his forehead, and his nose, and his chin, and my hands, my clothes were sticky with blood. I thought about amy hempel’s story, and the man says to the girl, ‘you’ll be fine but my sweater is ruined.’ and it was almost the same, only I knew, he knew, we knew he wouldn’t be fine. he cried, but didn’t stop looking at me. he didn’t want to be alone, and I let him look at me through his blood, and spit, the ropes of mucous from his broken nose, tears, the smell of urine and vomit.
he gripped my hand so hard I thought maybe he wanted to take it with him, and I thought maybe I would let him. he squeezed his eyes shut, his breath shaky, and solitary. more blood came, and police were setting up tape around us, yellow and black to keep away the crane-necked crowds. my companion stood in shock, saying my name over and over, staring at me all covered in the horrific gore of someone else’s death, but I didn’t look away from the man in the suit. for a minute I wondered whether he had run into traffic on purpose, or if he just misjudged the distance of the next car. I wondered if he could still see me, or feel my hand there in his. the man in the suv was crying, crying with his head in his hands, leaning against the wheel of his enormous car. I wanted to hold his hand too, but the man so close my face cried out in pain, and looked at me fiercely (I knew he could see me, then) before relaxing his muscles, and his breathing. for a moment he was whole again, before his eyes glazed over and he left, and his body gave way to the parts of death they don't show in the movies. he moved his bowels, at no fault of his own; I felt for him the shame he couldn’t feel in his own death, and I began to cry as the paramedics pulled the stranger’s hand away from mine.