PAINT IT RED

As I walked home from the subway, I heard a man calling loudly from the other side of the street to the people passing by. He looked homeless, yet he had somehow acquired a megaphone (perhaps from the street sale). As I passed the wig and hair accessory store, his heckling suddenly stopped. When it resumed, he had changed his tune. Instead, he was now trying to get people to join him in song,

"Day-o, we say we say we say Day-o. Daylight come and we want to go home." I couldn't resist joining him. (Who doesn't like that song?)

An hour or so, I was watching the TV in the living room, volume cranked up to full blast to drown out the sound of horns and ambulances that passed by on the street below, when I suddenly heard shouting. My first response was, what is that crazy crack head with the megaphone yelling about now? I paid no attention, but the shouting continued at the quieter moments of the show.

It was then that I noticed that the usual ambulance sirens were not simply passing by my apartment, but parked right out front. I could hear more approaching in the distance, and at this point I went over to the window, only to see a man, sprawled out on the road screaming in agony as blood poured out of his head, painting the street red.

After ten minutes or so he stopped screaming, but continued to move his arms as they covered the bullet hole in his head.

I tried to find a news story the following day to see if there was anymore news or updates on the man's condition, or what exactly had happened, but I found nothing. The only evidence that remained was a trail of blood-soaked bandages on the road that the emergency response team had left behind in the middle of the road.

Most people passing just stepped around it.