Heroism
I encountered a group of people huddled around a man with a bleeding head lying on the street a few weeks ago. There were five of them there. I was about to walk by but it quickly became obvious that they didn’t know what to do with him. They were standing around him with useful items but not touching him. I went up and picked up the tea towel they had oddly placed in the pool of blood gathering by his head and held it to the wound. I asked another man to take his pulse- he got out his phone to time it.
(Let’s take a moment to mourn the death of the second hand)
Back to the story: The injured man started to come round. He was confused and was trying to stand, I stood with him still clamping the towel to his head, my arms in the air because he was much taller. I told him to sit down, he wouldn’t. He started swaying and looking up and down the street, he was staggering but I still held on. A ring of old drunks formed around us, wanting to protect us but none of them wanting to touch him or speak. We danced some more. He looked into my eyes, taking me in for the first time, then he just laughed at me. The ambulance came and I walked home with blood on my hands and face. It was exciting. But in the end all I had done was hold a tea towel to a man’s head.
Weekly phone call to Dad:
“Well Cristina, I’ve told a few people your story and they were very impressed. Your aunt even got a bit teary.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. And I didn’t even have to exaggerate that much.”
