A lot to think about here for me, daughter and granddaughter of cops.
Eight years ago, I heard what sounded like a car backfiring. About a minute later, there was a knock on my door. I was half-asleep, got out of bed without throwing on anything but boxers and ran downstairs to see who was there. As I turned the door knob, I heard his voice:
“Help me! Fuck, please help me.“
A man stood before me, holding his stomach in pain. I was a bit slow, had just woken up, was maybe a little drunk, and anyway, I’d never seen so much blood. It was gushing from him, pouring through his hands, staining his shirt and jeans. His fingers were slick with it, there was some on his face, his white athletic shoes were splotched crimson.
“Fuck, man–hold on” I said. “I’ll call 911.”
“No” he shouted, really insistent, suddenly terrified. “They’ll send the cops. You gotta help me.”
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