Bleeding Man by Vanessa Carlisle
Turning the corner on my walk home from work I see a van at a wrong angle, a boy on the phone as he kneels next to his victim, a bleeding man lying in the street, and a dirty grey sweatshirt picking up gravel as the bleeding man tries to roll over from his side. He’s bleeding from the head. It’s a lot of blood, pooling.
The only thing I could use for a compress is my nice Balinese scarf. Then I think: that blood is so red. Then I think: pull off your goddamn scarf and help that man right now.
As I stride forward, announcing that I know First Aid, a forty-ish onlooker with wispy hair appears from a gathering perimeter I’d missed, and offers a wad of tissue.
“You could use this,” he says to me. Relieved, I take the tissues, still warm from his pocket, and fold them into a thick square.
Bleeding Man is moaning, squirming. I kneel daintily, bare knees at Bleeding Man’s scruffy gray crown, my skirt too tight for this position. The wound is over his left eye, maybe two inches square. He smells like beer, industrial cleaner, mixed nuts. Like a dive bar.
“Ouch,” Bleeding Man says, and tries to get up. Blood, more viscous than I would have imagined, inches on the asphalt toward my work heels.
I would do rescue breathing if I had to, I tell myself. I would.
His eyes roll towards mine. I hold the gaze. I hold the compress to his eye, I hold his neck. I hold the Bleeding Man still.
EMS arrives. Latex gloves, professional sounds, neck brace. No, I didn’t see him get hit. They notice I have blood on one hand, which now I hold aloft, away, quarantined.
A uniformed man says, “Sweetie, do you want some bleach? Can I pour some bleach on that?” My hands are drenched in a gritty rubbing-alcohol-gel, while the sudden bustling activity makes Bleeding Man start moaning more nervously.
I offer an officer my phone number and address. I ask the young, terrified driver of the van if he needs anything. Neither of us knows what I would give him.
I walk home and wash my hands for five minutes in hot water and anti-bacterial soap. I wrap myself in a blanket and sit on the couch.
Later, a cop calls. He says, “Five stitches and a couple of bruised ribs.” Bleeding Man had “admitted” to drinking “twelve-to-fourteen beers,” but the driver was sober, just blinded by the sun. Bleeding Man is going to be released once he’s sobered up. “Of course people deserve good medical care even if they’re intoxicated,” the cop says. “You were very gracious.”
In my own moral court, I am a convicted selfish coward.
It is the shock of that contrast, between my self-loathing and public righteousness, and not the blood, not the blood, that makes it difficult to sleep.
***
About the Author
Vanessa Carlisle
Born: Berkeley, California, USA
Now Resides: Los Angeles, California, USA
On-line: www.vanessacarlisle.com, www.gorgeouscuriosity.com
Bio: Vanessa leaves home every few years to live in places that are far too cold. She has recently tried to correct this pattern by entering a PhD program in Comparative Literature at UC Riverside, where it is far too hot. She has an MFA from Emerson College. Her work has appeared in NinthLetter, Juked, WordRiot, and Boink Magazine. She drinks her vegetables and likes to take poorly-lit photos of important events with her iPhone. Her first novel, A Crack in Everything, is getting rebelliously self-published and will be available through predictable online book-buying channels in October.
***
image by TheOn3LeftBehind.
-
glossolaliaflash posted this
