Page 10 of Gaze

“She’s bleeding out” the words fall out my mouth, stupid, “Sorry… I, I need an ambulance to 224 Sullivan St.”

“OK can you tell me what's going on?” I can hear clicking and scraping on the line as they use the computer to notify the right authorities.

“She… my neighbor, I, she’s cut herself, there is a lot of blood.” I stammer

“Ok are you with her now?” There is no urgency to their voice, it makes me inhale sharply.

“No… I…. I just know, ok?” I run my hand through my messy hair “She’s the fourth apartment from the left. She’s cut herself pretty bad and… and….” I can't find the words; I don't know what I would even say. I hang up. The shrill bang reverberates around the room before it's engulfed by silence.

I can't face looking at her. I can't look away. I'm trapped in an endless cycle of looking and not looking, measuring the growing blood stain on the bed, watching it reach the next item on the bed, looking for signs she’s still breathing.

My eyes are so strained in the darkness that I am startled when I see the reflection of the red and white flashing lights on the dark brick walls around me.

Then out of the stillness chaos breaks loose.

There are men in the room with her, they are shouting orders and information back and forth, one is opening a bag hastily thrown on the floor while the other lifts her up, I watch as her head lolls to the side, limp. Lifeless. Man number one presses something to her arm while the other reaches for her throat, checking for a pulse.

A third person enters the room, a different uniform. Police.

They look around the room and stick their head out the window searching. I lean back, not that they would see me in the blackness of my fourth-floor window. I give it a minute before I look back at the scene below, she’s on a stretcher now. Her arm bandaged up, and a tube connected to her other arm. She looks a lot less peaceful than she did before.

A lash of guilt runs through me.

I interfered. I have never done that before, it’s a rule. You document and you watch but you never interfere. It’s not your place. It’s not my place.

No.

No.

I saved her life. She’s alive now because I look out the window, if it wasn’t for me some poor person would have to find her body. It would be a waste of life. No. I was right. I feel triumph, vindication, adrenaline.

Lisa is wrong, Steve is wrong. And I just proved it to them.

If it wasn't for me Miss Prozac would be dead.

I saved her.

chapter

eleven

I wake the next morning with a metaphorical spring in my step.

I saved her.

I even take the time to make myself eggs, scrambled, with my leg resting on the base of a box to prop myself up. I sit in front of the TV and enjoy mouthfuls of yellow yokey goodness with toast. It’s the first time I have eaten properly in days. I realize that it isn’t morning at all, but much later in the day - I forget that most people have jobs and lives while I have nothing to anchor my days. I watch the news, curious to see if they will mention Miss Prozac, they don't. But it does nothing to sour my mood.

I saved her.

I look over at the window, from here I can just about see the blue sky above the top of the concrete forest. I wonder what it feels like outside, whether the heat would be too much. Are stray dogs burning their feet on the ground? Are men showing off by frying an egg on the hood of their hot rods? Are newborns and their mothers going as stir crazy as I am trapped in their homes for fear of burning their virgin skin. I turn my thoughts back to last night. I wonder how she is doing; I wonder if she made it? Is she in hospital or the morgue? My compulsion to check is too great, I hobble from my chair to the chair in front of the window, my camera still laying on the floor where I left it the night before.

The sun is pouring into the courtyard between the buildings, the blue and white police tape catching the light in the faint breeze. Her curtains are closed, hiding whatever lays behind them. It’s almost a relief not to see the coagulated blood in the bedsheets.

I look down at the camera, without it last night I wouldn’t have seen what was about to happen, I wouldn’t have been able to act so fast and save her life. A thought comes over me, I look over at the piles of camera equipment. I have several tripods - designed to stabilize a camera sat in bags behind the lenses and other assorted items. If the camera is stable, I can use it like a telescope, negating the weight it takes to wield.

I struggle to get the tripod out the bag and erect it, but nothing is going to stop me. I pop each nut in place as the legs extend and the metal plate slides into the camera - a satisfying click as it locks into place. Even as sweat pours down my back I don't stop until the tripod and camera are connected and facing out the window.

Now I can really see people, in detail I never believed was possible. I start where I always do at the top left corner and Mr. Songwriter. He is standing by his table; it's littered with records. I can see the colors of the labels now, even make out a few words. He’s got a cigarette hanging from his mouth as he taps out a beat on his leg before rushing to pick up a pen and paper and scribble down the lyrics. The room is full of old newspapers and dirty dishes. I can see the ashtray piled high with dead ends and ash. But more than anything, I can now see the emotion on his face, his eyebrows knitted in concentration. His eyes are blue, his teeth slightly yellow stained and a tattoo on his upper arm. The snake coiled round a flaming skull ready to pounce on its prey.