Three, maybe four, people are assisting them. A few are led by their morbid
curiosities, filming the gruesome scene with their phones.
If I were still living in Virginia, this would play out in a completely
different manner. Everyone around would stop. Panic would ensue, people
would be screaming, a news crew would be on scene in a matter of minutes.
But here in Manhattan, a pedestrian struck by a vehicle happens so often,
it’s not much more than an inconvenience. A delay in traffic for some, a
ruined wardrobe for others. This probably happens so often, it won’t even
end up in print.
As much as the indifference in some of the people here disturbs me, it’s
exactly why I moved to this city ten years ago. People like me belong in
overpopulated cities. The state of my life is irrelevant in a place this size.
There are far more people here with stories much more pitiful than mine.
Here, I’m invisible. Unimportant. Manhattan is too crowded to give a
shit about me, and I love her for it.
“Are you hurt?”
I look up at a man as he touches my arm and scans my shirt. Deep
concern is embedded in his expression as he looks me up and down,
assessing me for injuries. I can tell by his reaction that he isn’t one of the
more hardened New Yorkers. He might live here now, but wherever he’s
from, it’s a place that didn’t completely beat the empathy out of him.
“Are you hurt?” the stranger repeats, looking me in the eye this time.
“No. It’s not my blood. I was standing near him when…” I stop
speaking. I just saw a man die. I was so close to him, his blood is on me.
I moved to this city to be invisible, but I am certainly not impenetrable.
It’s something I’ve been working on—attempting to become as hardened as
the concrete beneath my feet. It hasn’t been working out so well. I can feel
everything I just witnessed settling in my stomach.
I cover my mouth with my hand, but pull it away quickly when I feel
something sticky on my lips. More blood. I look down at my shirt. So much
blood, none of it mine. I pinch at my shirt and pull it away from my chest,
but it sticks to my skin in spots where the blood splatters are beginning to
dry.
I think I need water. I’m starting to feel light-headed, and I want to rub
my forehead, pinch my nose, but I’m scared to touch myself. I look up at
the man still gripping my arm.
“Is it on my face?” I ask him.