(no subject)
On Saturday night - more like Sunday morning - I was walking up Dixon Street. Two young men were fighting across the road. I paused, watching. A third man was trying to break it up, and I decided that I would go and help if he couldn't bring things under control. Of course, he couldn't, and a few seconds later, I was dashing across the road.
Too late, of course: as I crossed half-way, one of the brawlers kicked the other in the jaw. The young man fell back, his head cracking on the curb ahead of me. I avoided his sightless eyes as I tried to check if he was breathing, or had a pulse - then, all at once, other on-lookers descended to help, with well-meaning ignorance instead of any real knowledge of first-aid. I didn't feel much better briefed - it'd been years since my last refresher, after all - and my friends were waiting on the opposite side of the street. So I walked away, knowing that at least someone was calling an ambulance.
I'm not very happy with myself about this. From past experience, I know how hard it is to stop a fight on one's own, so my hesitation doesn't make sense.
It just made a difference.
Too late, of course: as I crossed half-way, one of the brawlers kicked the other in the jaw. The young man fell back, his head cracking on the curb ahead of me. I avoided his sightless eyes as I tried to check if he was breathing, or had a pulse - then, all at once, other on-lookers descended to help, with well-meaning ignorance instead of any real knowledge of first-aid. I didn't feel much better briefed - it'd been years since my last refresher, after all - and my friends were waiting on the opposite side of the street. So I walked away, knowing that at least someone was calling an ambulance.
I'm not very happy with myself about this. From past experience, I know how hard it is to stop a fight on one's own, so my hesitation doesn't make sense.
It just made a difference.