In the Name of Jesus, Where the Fuck are They?

Last night there was a pool of blood at the bottom of the stairs outside my apartment.  The blood belonged to a young man, no more than half my age, who, due either to a fatal misstep or a glass too much, plunged from the third floor landing to the concrete below.

He was attending a birthday party at the apartment of a young couple that live directly above me.  The party was loud and boisterous.  And, of course, the drink flowed freely, or so the smell of alcohol on some of the other party-goers would indicate.  When he fell and hit the ground it seemed to shake the entire apartment building.  There were screams and the sound of hurried footsteps on the staircase.

I was not home at the time.  Mrs. B related the story to me later.  She went out to see what the commotion was and was staggered by the scene.  My glorious wife is made of pretty stern stuff.  It takes a lot to rattle her.  Believe me, I know.  I've tried.  But the sight of copious amounts of blood gushing from a young man's skull will shock anyone.  As the man's friends ran to his aid, bringing towels and rags to help stop the bleeding, Mrs. B called 911.  The operator said they had already received several calls for the incident.

My wife went back out to see if she could help.  Of course, there's not much one can do in a situation like that, except pray.  And pray she did.  She raised her hands to God and asked for help for that poor young man in Jesus' name.  Many of the man's friends did the same.  Our downstairs neighbor came out and laid hands on the victim, praying to Jesus.

It seemed to take forever for the paramedics to arrive.  At one point, one of the young man's friends cried out, "In the name of Jesus, where the fuck are they?"  Many people would be shocked and disgusted to here the Lord's name used in such a way.  But to me, somehow, considering the dire nature of the situation, it seems appropriate.

I'm not really sure why I felt the need to write about this.  Perhaps to show how fine the thread is that holds us in this life.  And how, especially at a young age, we tend to take immortality for granted.  Let's face it, no one goes to a party thinking, hey, I may not get through this night alive.  He was probably just thinking about getting drunk and having a good time.  Maybe about the possibility of getting laid later.  Or maybe, if he was married or had a girlfriend, ruing the fact that he had to go home with, or to, her later.

Neither my wife nor I know whether this young man lived through the night or went to meet his Creator.  He regained conciousness at some point before being taken away in the ambulance but with a traumatic head injury one can never predict the outcome.  He left behind nothing to show he was ever there, except for a thick, dark, red pool of blood congealing on the concrete breezeway and a few bloody hand prints made by his friends as they ran up and down the staircase retrieving items to help save him.  Mrs. B cleaned the hand prints from the railing after I got home from work that night.  Today, when I went to work, the concrete had been washed clean of any indication of how precariously a young life had hung in the balance just a few hours before.

I remember when my wife told me that the gathering upstairs was a birthday party, I thought, I hope it wasn't his birthday.  Then I realized that it didn't really matter.  Now I keep thinking, I sure hope it wasn't his last.