From his finger tips one could tell he was down on his luck. The dirt had piled up for some time under his nails. The grime on his fingers would not wash ifc for several good scrubbings. His palms stained red from where he had held the broken bottle as he pierced and dug into the skin allowing the hemorrhaging to pool. The blood slowly drains from his flesh at the cuts in his wrist. Down his forearm to his elbow and fall to the earth below as if a drop of rain. Drop by drop growing the puddles that are collecting next his knees. As he kneels he lifts his hands up towards the sky and tilts his head back looking towards the heavens. Calling out, he looks for an answer as to why must he suffer. That answer never comes and he places the sharp edge of the bottle to his throat. He pushes the cold lifeless glass against his penetrible skin which begins to dent but not puncture. He questions everything that he has ever known and wonders why no one cares.
Just before he makes his final push an police officer pulls up seeing this man, ultimately stopping him from slitting his own throat. “I’m sorry” he tells the officer “I’m so sorry” breaking down into tears. We get the call and roll up in moments as out was just down the block. The man now on his feet still drips blood, throwing a bandage on his wrist to stop the bleeding we hand gloves to the officer so he can safely search or patient. Both doing out respected duties we work as a seamless unit. The officer satisfied the subject is clear and me feeling the bleeding is under control we help him in the ambulance.
Down on his luck and feeling depressed he felt he had no other choice. But for what ever reason the officer was going by there at that very moment he needed it most. In time he allowed the patient to get the help he truly needed and just maybe this patients luck was spot on after all.



