The Rescuer
The lonely walk gives way to quiet chatter as I press forward, down the street. Before me, the moonlight casts an eerie glow over the scene unfolding as I continue to approach. Lights flash from atop the uninhabited police cars as their occupants step out and begin to assess the surroundings.
I notice police tape sectioning off the area, and as I get closer, I realize just up ahead, the unmistakable chalk outline of where a body once lay. At the sight, I feel the acceleration of my heart and anxiety clawing at me from the inside of my stomach. I want to run.
Suddenly, to my right, I hear a voice call out my name. Relief permeates from it, as its owner runs in my direction and embraces me in a hug before I can even put together who it is. The survivor.
Before I can respond, their hug gives way to collapse and gasping sobs, and I find myself straining to hold them upright.
“I’m so glad you came,” they cry with anguish. “I needed you here.”
I continue to take in the horrific scene over their shoulder as they continue to shake. My muscles are starting to ache, but I don’t want to be the one to let go first. It feels wrong.
“Needed me here?” I asked myself, perplexed.
Around me, police officers and first responders continued milling about, doing their job. I am not one of them. I do not need to be here.
I do not want to be here.
This piece is for the rescuers. The ones weary in their compassion fatigue. The ones continuing to show up and love people because that’s what they do. It’s okay if you don’t always want to.