He is just there…on all fours, in front of my house. His head is down. I assume he is throwing up, or had collapsed or is having a seizure.
I stand up to look out the window. As I near the glass I watch him go to a prone position and jump from the ground, thrusting his head into the concrete wall he had been lying beside. It is a disgusting sight. He falls in a heap next to the wall.
I grab a phone and dial for emergency and two friends come out with me to witness the scene.
Blood. Stark and dramatic. On the ground, on the wall, on his head, his face…everywhere.
It’s hard to know what to do. Blood is risky. I don’t know what is in it. I don’t know why this guy is throwing himself around. Drugs? Psychosis? Disease? But the blood is there. He is there. I am staring at him.
The man makes a move to stand up. The movement is stilted and he plops down like a dejected child. His eyes are wide and confused. We grab some paper towels and tell him to put them on his head. His hair is matted and stained. The towels begin to soak up the blood and the contrast of white and red is unnerving.
He tries to stand again and I instruct him against it, “Just keep sitting, buddy. Help is coming. Just hold the towels.”
His eyes remain confused and he looks at us as though he is uncertain of our intent.
He tries to stand again pulling his hand off his head and bracing to get up. He starts to move in a way that looks like he is going to break through the barrier we have created in front of him. I imagine he would flail and run right toward me, trying to get through me, bloody hands and face and clothes. Do I let him run? Do I risk the blood? The danger? Do I put myself in front of someone to potentially save their life?
“Just keep sitting, buddy. Help is coming. Keep the towels on your head.”
He sits childlike, confused, and perhaps uncertain where he is. He begins to move his hand back to his head and looks at us as though for approval of the appropriate action.
“What is your name, buddy?”
“Brian. Brian John Keller,” The names come out haltingly.
“Hi Brian. I’m Aeric. Where do you live?”
“Right around here. I used to go to school right up the hill.”
He takes his hand off his head and we go through the same procedure. We coach him back and he looks again for approval.
He turns with his searching eyes and looks at me, “Are you going to help me kill myself?”
I’m nauseous. I look at the ungiving concrete and the stains and realize he thrust his own head into the sidewalk and the wall with purpose. This man in front of my house is bleeding because he is trying to end his life by throwing it against a wall.
His hands go down to his sides, readying himself to stand up again, and my uncertainty increases. Do I risk safety for this man? Do I let him run? Do I risk the blood? The danger? Do I put myself in front of someone who is trying to die in a raw, determined way? Do I risk myself to potentially save his life? Am I willing to get blood on my hands for this neighbor? How far do I go to bring life to someone running toward death?
“Sit down, buddy. Help is coming…”