0
Helplessness
Posted by The Red Devil
on
Friday, April 27, 2007
in
Heartbreaking
Isn't it funny how you remember details when you've only got a glimpse or a fraction of vision?
I remember seeing the headline on the tabloid: Father molests own daughter.
I remember his white printed shirt - the ones that companies use as a giveaway on christmas.
I remember his salt and pepper hair
I remember the weight of the fabric of his shorts. Like khaki but heavier.
I remember the boots of the policeman standing just a few feet from him. His boots were too shiny if you ask me - bordering on patent.
I remember blood. Lots of it. Oozing from the back of his head.
Tuesday morning en route to work, I saw this scene. It was an old man, a victim of vehicular manslaughter, sprawled on the asphalted expanse of Roxas Blvd. He was covered in smudgy inked tabloid pages, as if the whole scene isn't scandalous enough. The policeman was there, standing a few feet from the body, directing traffic. He had this look on his face, like this was a regular occurence. He was so nonchalant, so unfeeling.
I was disgusted, angry, furious and helpless. I wanted to go down the bus and demand that we take the old man to the hospital. I was hoping that he was still alive. I was disgusted and furious by the lack of action and empathy. It was too undignified to be left dead like that. I wanted to do something, but I didn't. Instead, I kept my anger simmering inside me and balanced it with guilt. I didn't do anything but stay in my seat and go down my designated stop. I hated myself. I hate myself.
For the past 4 days, I've been dreaming of that scene and of the old man. He wasn't saying anything, just looking and staring at me with a look of pity on his face.
I should have done something.
I'm so sorry. I'm helplessly weak.
I remember seeing the headline on the tabloid: Father molests own daughter.
I remember his white printed shirt - the ones that companies use as a giveaway on christmas.
I remember his salt and pepper hair
I remember the weight of the fabric of his shorts. Like khaki but heavier.
I remember the boots of the policeman standing just a few feet from him. His boots were too shiny if you ask me - bordering on patent.
I remember blood. Lots of it. Oozing from the back of his head.
Tuesday morning en route to work, I saw this scene. It was an old man, a victim of vehicular manslaughter, sprawled on the asphalted expanse of Roxas Blvd. He was covered in smudgy inked tabloid pages, as if the whole scene isn't scandalous enough. The policeman was there, standing a few feet from the body, directing traffic. He had this look on his face, like this was a regular occurence. He was so nonchalant, so unfeeling.
I was disgusted, angry, furious and helpless. I wanted to go down the bus and demand that we take the old man to the hospital. I was hoping that he was still alive. I was disgusted and furious by the lack of action and empathy. It was too undignified to be left dead like that. I wanted to do something, but I didn't. Instead, I kept my anger simmering inside me and balanced it with guilt. I didn't do anything but stay in my seat and go down my designated stop. I hated myself. I hate myself.
For the past 4 days, I've been dreaming of that scene and of the old man. He wasn't saying anything, just looking and staring at me with a look of pity on his face.
I should have done something.
I'm so sorry. I'm helplessly weak.
