We talked about another close encounter, and in the irony of all irony, we watched his death unfold before our eyes. He writhed in the street, helpless, spasms contorting his body, as blood spilled from his mouth like thick, scarlet, paint. Paint. That's what it looked like, paint. I kept my hands on his heaving chest, his tiny heart racing like the sped car that would inevitably be the author of his death in 5 - 4 - 3 - 2- 1 - seconds.His chest heaved no more. There were no more spasms, no more desperate attempts to claw at breath. Just silence, as red, green and yellow lights blinked in the distance, and echoes of holiday laughter traveled from varying directions. But there was nothing festive about this death.
And as two bright, menacing eyes bared down on me, racing towards this makeshift scene of death and confusion, I picked the lifeless body up, still dripping scarlet paint, and leaving a three spots, a trail that would vanish before the first natural hue broke the darkness, I placed the tiny creature on the side of the gutter. The water, sparkling in the moon's halo, sparkled, welcomed him, as if he would take another sip. The liquid was clear, and ran happily, like a laughing brook into the darkness.
I looked at my hands, touched by death ... and holding up like a surgeon's .. or maybe Lady Macbeth ... wondered, can you ever really wash the touch of death from your hands?
