"Have you ever heard of some shit so real?
Beyond from the heart, from the soul you can feel..." --Kid Cudi
So I'm gonna talk a little bit about myself, and my life, and one of the reasons that I'm fucked up to the extent that I am right now. I just got home from seeing Kick-Ass with Mermaid and Kristofferson...little did I know, this was a pretttty fuckin violent movie--blood, gore, guts...you name it, it was there. The first violent scene was when the lead character, Dave--better known as Kick-Ass--gets stabbed...in almost the exact same spot that the victim I was with got stabbed last year:
“We need help! Please come quick! We’re at--I don’t know what the address is! The cross streets? I don’t know, Piedmont and something.”
“Piedmont and Channing,” I hear somebody scream.
“We’re at Piedmont and Channing. Please, please hurry. My friend just got stabbed.”
I realize then that I don’t even know “my friend’s” name, someone tells me that his name is Rob. Why am I panicking? Why do I have my hand on his bleeding stomach? I see his blood seeping through our fingers -- a deep, warm red. I have my right hand over his, putting pressure on his gushing wound; my left hand is busy holding a phone up to my ear while I scream for the police to come. Amidst all of the chaos, Rob manages to get his bloody, black shirt off. We begin to wrap it around his stomach. As soon as we lift our hands from his wound, his dark, warm blood begins to pour out. We quickly tighten the shirt and replace our hands against his stomach -- mine, on top of his. Why aren’t the fucking cops here yet? Someone helps me convince Rob to lie down. I’m on top of him now, putting as much pressure as I can with one hand against his stomach. I’m still on the line with the police operator.
“Ma’am, the police will be there very soon. I need you to stay calm for me, ma’am.”
The police pull up then -- about twelve cars, their sirens blaring and their lights shining. I finally look up, away from Rob, away from our hands, away from the red stained sidewalk. I realize that what has seemed like hours, has only been minutes -- two, maybe three minutes. Someone rushes over and takes my place at Rob’s side; I don’t see whether he’s a cop or a paramedic, but he reassures me that he’s got this situation under control.
I’m standing alone now...I mean, there are herds of people standing around us, some may even be talking to me, but I don’t know what they’re saying. All I know is that my favorite, yellow sweater and my hand are stained red. My finger tips have become prunes, wrinkled from the wet blood. The air is making the blood dry on my hand; the blood is cold now -- freezing -- not warm like it had been before. My hand, and me, and nothing else.
My friends are screaming at me, to get my attention, but I don’t hear them; I can see their mouths moving, but no words are coming out...no sounds. I don’t know where I am anymore; everything around me is moving, but I’m stuck -- stuck in the same position, unable to take a step, unable to understand what has happened. Finally, one of my friend’s grabs on to me,
“JULIA. I need you to look at me. You’re okay. We’re okay. He’s gonna be okay; the ambulance just left. They’re taking him to the hospital.”
“I need something to wipe my hand off with,” I don’t realize until this moment that I am crying -- tears flying down my cheeks, “I need to get the off my hand NOW. Please.”
An officer notices my panic and walks over to me with a wet tissue. I try to wipe the blood off, but it’s sticky, the tissue is just tearing and my hand is still bright red. I’m shaking.
“Please, please, I need it off of me. I really need to clean my hands. I really really need them clean,” I beg.
Another officer sees my frantic pleading, and he walks me over to the firetruck. He leaves me with a fireman.
“Okay, hun. Put out your hands. This is hydrogen peroxide. I’m gonna pour it into your hands, and I want you to rub them together.”
He pours the peroxide, and it starts to bubble and turn a bright pink in my cupped hands. I rub as hard and as fast as I can. He gives me a rag to wipe them off. The majority of the blood is gone -- off of my skin, at least. But I can still see it under and around my nails. I wonder if it will ever really be gone.
One Week Later:
I heard from Rob today. He’s out of the hospital, and he’ll be going back to school soon. Thank god. The doctors say he got stabbed in the liver, about 2 inches deep; they say that if it had been anywhere else, he could’ve been dead; they say that if pressure hadn’t been applied to it, he could’ve been dead. Why are people calling me a hero? I am not a hero. In fact, I am far from a hero. I just did what my instinct told me to do. I can’t remember the incident very clearly anymore. I was with the police until 4 am that morning, telling them my story and identifying a couple guys in the lineup they had. They called me again today, asking for another statement, but I couldn’t remember much. I don’t think I can ever go back there again; the fear that has been inflicted on me, the memories that are glued in my brain will never go away.
So, when my classmates wonder why I don't focus in class, or why I may not be there as often as I should, I want them to know this. I want them to see that my world is fucked up. Sometimes, I think it's fucked beyond repair...but I know that's not true. My mind is ALWAYS filled with these thoughts...and this is only one of the many "life experiences" that I have had. So, I'm sorry to my classmates who are disturbed by my lack of attention, or my lack of attendance, or my frequently sorrowful face--I am working as hard as I can to be strong and to use these as "learning experiences," but sometimes, it's just not that simple.