Blood on My Hands

Photo of red blood cells by MdougM from Wikimedia Commons

By Freeway

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! “That was definitely a gun.” These were the words I feared the most. After sustaining a gunshot wound of my own in 2021, I have consistently had a fearful reaction to loud, popping noises. Typically, my sympathetic nervous system kicks in; most often, in the form of either freeze or flight. However, I am surprisingly calm at this moment.

Instead of ducking, my ears are perked and my eyes lock with my team member, Monte. In a moment we share the unspoken acknowledgement: “We have to check on folks.” Without saying a word, we both move towards the community members living at E. 12th Street. 

“I've got my first aid kit,” says Monte as we walk towards residents, many of whom are trying to make sense of the loud noises as well. 

“Is anybody hit?” I yell to the residents. No answer. “Is everyone ok? Did anyone get hit?” I yell again. 

Then, I see him. There, to my side, is a young man. Everything else goes silent–I see the blood. His hand is covered in it; bright red blood–a sign that it's worse than I thought. 

I know from my years of IV drug use that bright red, thick, milky consistency is a tell tale sign of artery blood. 

“Were you shot?” I ask him, confirming the nature of the situation. Before he can answer me, I've taken off my flannel hoodie and begin wrapping his hand. I don't take time to even assess the wound; the blood is gushing and it needs to stop. Monte has left to fetch his first aid kit and a couple tourniquets from the harm reduction supplies. 

“My name's Freeway, do you want me to call an ambulance?” He says yes. At this point, I'm still trying to put pressure on the wound, keep his hand elevated and keep eyes for any further danger. As Monte returns, I tell him to hold the jacket and put heavy pressure on the wound. I take the two tourniquets, and begin to tie off. For a second, in the chaos, it occurs to me: how ironic that all my years of self-sabotage, through behaviors often frowned upon and stigmatized by society, has led to this moment; who knew that someday my skills used to slowly kill myself, would help me keep someone else alive? 

As I juggle the phone with my ear, I give the dispatcher what little info I have–location, nature, and phone number. “Send somebody NOW,” I say, dropping the phone to my side to focus on his injury.”

About a minute later I hear the sirens. Instinctively I begin waving, only to realize that it's not an ambulance. Two cops in an SUV are approaching. I freeze, realizing what's happening. “Is this the guy that's shot?” They ask; for a fraction of a second I freeze–everything in my natural thought process is saying don't talk to them. It doesn't matter now–they know. Suddenly they're out of their car, and it's too late. 

“C'mon Freeway–let's go” Monte says. I understand why; I don't want him to be there anymore than he wants to be there. I nod him on. “Go ahead; I'm gonna stay with him” I say. I begin recording the police. 

“DoyouknowwhoshotyouWherewereyouDidyouseeanythingma'am?” The questions bleed together, almost as much as his hand. They've now tied his arm off with a stronger tourniquet, one used by pigs, not IV drug users. 

Then the ambulance arrives. They bring him over to the ambulance and begin questioning me. I know better than to talk to pigs, but I also know that there's a LOT of unhoused residents now surrounded by them. If I don't interact, they'll be forced to. I tell them as little as possible, which, luckily for me, is the truth; I didn't see anything, I don't know what car they were in… I just heard shots and went running. As uncomfortable as it is, I force myself to maintain composure.

Suddenly, yelling starts in the ambulance. It's the pig on the bike. It's hard to make out what he's barking about, then I see it. The injured resident is also packing. I instantly realize my mistake. My mind starts reeling with all the “should'ves”: I should've asked him if he had anything on him before they came; I should've warned him that they would come if it was a gunshot wound; I should've, I should've, I should've…I see the list flooding into my head, in the form of his blood. It pours around my brain, drowning me in guilt, embarrassment, regret. I was so focused on the bleeding, I forgot that he was vulnerable. I can't help but feel responsible for this moment. 

Now, all I can do is stand by and document their actions. 

Another pig approaches me, asking me the exact same questions. I tell them I've given my answers already, give them the same answers, and ask if I can leave. I'm told I'm free to go, so I do. 

It's only after I am back at our table that I realize: I literally have his blood on my hands.