The blood pours from that poor soul’s chest like… I don’t know, insert some genius metaphor here. This isn’t a linguistic beauty, it’s a visual one. You have to see the blood trickling down his side, slowly searching the pavement until it finds the cracks and then rushing toward the gutter. There it joins that tiny river of water on its way into the sewer. The very red life draining from a man where it will run under his neighbors’ houses, under his boss’s office, under his doctor’s practice, under his lawyer’s firm.
I don’t know this man. I guess I’ve seen him around, but I don’t really know him.
I’m watching all this from a safe distance, well above street level, peering down from a height where I can barely tell it’s a human. It’s more like a bug that someone’s stepped on.
His tie, a pastel sort of green color, is spotted now with blood. I have one just like it. That familiarity makes it harder to stare, but not hard enough to stop. My tie obviously doesn’t have the blood. The blood kind of goes with the tie, though, makes it more interesting.
Impossible to pinpoint, sirens blare in the distance, echoing off the buildings. Ah, they’re coming from the left. From the left an ambulance speeds along and stops near enough to the corpse.
But’s it’s not a corpse to them yet; it’s still human. They stop the bleeding, they seal the wound, all with a calm urgency that gives away the fact that while they appreciate that this is a human life, and yes it’s very important, this is the 50th time they’ve done this this month. But they’re too late.
And as everything goes black, I realize how familiar that man looked.
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