Blood flowed from his ears and lips, it ran wild down the asphalt. I pulled a sweatshirt that was lying beside him on the ground to place between his mouth and mine while I exhaled. Blood soon soaked that as well.
Up and down, throwing my weight into his chest, everything blurred. I remember a girl knelt beside him. Gripping his hand, she repeated frantically to him that it wasn't his time. She held his hand so tightly.
I sat on the porch in a daze. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion - his friend looking up at me as I walked past him, blood on his shirt, our eyes met but we didn't say anything to each other; the red and blue lights that flashed across stoic walls and reflected from silent windows; the paramedics who crossed back and forth between the patio and street, equipment in their hands but no speed in their steps.
Sometimes I wonder if tragedy is as intentional as the seasons. For if people carry out their lives walking in circles, feeling a disconnect from their food, their environments, allowing their passions to be replaced by habits and routines, maybe tragedy is an extreme event given to remind us that this is our chance - our only chance - and it may disappear at any moment, why wouldn't we fight to make it anything less than amazing?
All I know about him is what I heard someone say to the paramedics when they arrived: his name was Alex, he was 25 years old, and he died by a chance accident.
Why do we allow our lives to become so routine that it takes tragedy to realize the inertia that we've allowed to ensnare us?
Excuses fall flat when a body dies beneath your hands.
And I realized that if you possess a heartbeat, you're luckier than some. If you possess a heartbeat and a motivation, you're in the best place in the world.