Sometime in Winter 2023 - Past 23:00
I must’ve been 14 the first time I saw a man die.
I’ve never really been a drinker, but at that age you get used to getting into stupid situations, the kind you don’t consider until it's already over.
School never brought me friends, and so I ended up joining the local scouts group, with the futile hope that it would bring with it a precipice of expected kindness and strength among my peers. In fairness that was the case. It was about a year in when I started meeting friends outside of the hall, going to local parks, pubs and otherwise later on.
Of course we weren’t quite of age but no one particularly cares for such trivialities, especially not within those areas.
It must have been Winter, it would never snow ‘round here but the temperature would get low enough to get people's hopes up each year.
I was still not a fan of drinking, and declined all offers, unlike those around me, who were barely walking. Part of me needed to stay.
“This is how friends work”
And yet I couldn’t.
I ran.
Later on I felt disgusted at the choice but something about me was unsettled. A drunk man, or boy, is not dissimilar to that of a human in its barest form. The niceties of modern life appear to disappear into something more realistic, more primal as to what we truly wish for. Violence, anger or other needs.
Being sober whilst surrounded by intoxicated others is never a comfortable experience, and so I ran. But that was when I came upon something else, a different group of men and older boys, seemingly not exactly sober themselves.
...
I never lived in the town, my family resided far out in one of the most rural areas for miles around, but when you go to a local school, you quickly pick up on the local geometry, the shortcuts, and the streets. A small rural town to an agricultural boy feels like a city, albeit a city whose streets can be entirely memorized within the first school term.
The alleyways between closed local shops were one thing no one really knows, but after school for the first few months I would get to know some rather well. When you have nothing better to do, but wish not to remain in school after hours, a bench in a park is all you can wish for. Time to sit and read, time to pass somewhere alone. Sadly such a thing wasn’t to be found. But one day I was in town, ravenous for anything when I came upon a corner shop, sandwiched between two other regular flat blocks.
I decided I could do worse, and was about to enter when I saw inside were two of the older kids from the College, resulting in my ducking into an alleyway. But something strange came into sight when I did so.
A bench.
In a random alley.
I never saw something quite as strange again but for now, the alley bench as I called it was my secret, seemingly known only to me, a couple rats, and most likely the baker himself.
Before acquiring my first car, this bench was my escape from the outside world. The bus would only go a 15 minute walk from home, and I didn’t need to go home until dinner, giving about 3 hours a day between the end of the school hours, and any requirement to do anything. I never particularly disliked home, but with nothing to do, the bench became a second home.
And so we return to that night in Winter. I turned into the alley, this time simply hoping to pass the bench and come out the other end. If you hopped over the dumpster at the other end, I found you could end up at the bus stop quite a bit faster.
And yet when making the turn that's when I came across five men, two together and three on the other end near me. Something immediately felt off. Now I was impatient and stupid so in spite of the late time of night I politely requested to walk through, clearly not considering how such a thing wouldn’t work.
The three on my end looked back, one on the far left was smiling, he was wearing a silver chain, with a ridiculously large cross, albeit not the kind a priest would wear. One that looked thorny, almost as if the crucifix was made of barbed wire, complimented by a ripped wife-beater shirt. The other two were slightly more “presentable”, you could say, wearing coats and clothing far more ideal for the weather. In spite of his lack of protective wear, the one to the left didn’t seem to shiver from the cold at all. The boy to his immediate right looked almost identical but much younger and in different fashion, I assumed a younger brother or cousin.
The left boy stepped towards me, resulting in one of the men on the other end of the alley running, jumping onto the dumpster, holding the hand of the other. That was when the boy gripped his arm and pulled him down, yelling expletives as he stood over him. I began to run away, hearing as the second man ran through the other two boys, pushing through them with force as they fell to the ground.
I stopped.
I still don’t quite know why, perhaps part of me wanted to go and help. Perhaps it was pure morbidity on my part but I stopped and looked back to see what was happening. I wished to go over but for my own survival I felt doing so would be suicidal. I stood there looking on as the second man grabbed and smashed the wife beater boy’s head into the wall, and the other two ran away.
He fell onto the ground, cursing homophobic slurs I don’t care to repeat and crawled away as the man sat on the ground, crying into the frosty night air, holding his partner, whose face held the appearance of a keyed rubber tire, flakes of skin peeling off.
I ran.
I should have called for help, called the police.
I ran.
Perhaps I could have helped.
But I just ran.