I know this is a little heavy. Thank you for reading.

I miss you today. Not the you that used to get drunk and embarrass me, or the you that expected everything to always be taken care of for you (by me, whether you knew it or not), but the other part...maybe a part that isn't even exclusive to you. What I miss is having a lap to snuggle into, and a chest to spill tears on, and arms to hold me, and a mouth to kiss me and tell me things will be okay. I used to believe it with all my heart when you said that.

I saw a man get hurt on the subway stairs a few days ago. I thought I was okay, but today the image flashed back into my mind. There was so much blood everywhere, and he was moaning and convulsing...the sound was horrible, like nothing I have ever seen before, like a cow, maybe. I imagine it would be the noise made by the cow in Apocalypse now, when the natives try to sever its head, but the machete only cuts halfway. I kept thinking I should do something, and all I could remember from your stupid EMT flash cards was "jazzy hands."

My God, there was so much blood. It was spilling out of his crushed skull like a drain pipe. It pooled up around his face and started dripping down the stairs. The sight of the blood paralyzed me--I'm still not sure how I managed to call the station manager on the intercom. I wanted to scream. All those people were just walking over him and I wanted to scream at them. But the blood...I couldn't. My mouth wouldn't open.

Finally, a police officer descended the stairs. I was watching this all through a metal gate, and it was like watching, I don't know, a scene from Twelve Monkeys or something, where the lighting is all dismal and weird and the depth of field is really small. The police officer shouted at the man: "Police! Sir! Police!" like he was accusing him of vagrancy. How dare he lie face down on the pavement like that, with crumpled one dollar bills littered around his limp hand, with a river of blood gushing from around his brain?

I couldn't help thinking about my dad. When he shot himself, did he do it in the face? Did the bullet go through the side of his head? The back? Or was it front and center, like he was executing himself? Did the blood flow like that? Was there a puddle in the car? When they found him, was the blood still wet? Did it drip off his hands like at the end of Gorillas in the Mist? Did he die right away, or did he have time to think about it while it happened? If he thought about it, did he regret it? Did he ever imagine that I would sit in Bryant Park someday sobbing violently and asking these questions to my ex-boyfriend through a notebook? Didn't he ever wonder what would happen to me because of him and his stupid gun? Why didn't he think about that? Why didn't he love us enough to stay? Why did he have to be so selfish and why am I so selfish all the time with my anger and my fear and my time and my money and my things and my love? Why am I always so afraid? Why is it so hard for me to believe that I'm not going to end up just like him? Why is it so hard for me to understand that the world isn't forcing me to be like him? Why is it so hard for me to understand that it's okay to be happy?

In a flash I was back on the landing by the 2 train, watching the cop and the man, who was no longer convulsing. I think maybe he was dead. The paramedics were on their way, the cop said. Did anybody see what happened?

Truthfully, I hadn't. I had just heard the noise and then turned around to see him lying there. "I think he fell," I said. My voice was not my own. It was so loud, so sure. How was that voice coming out of me?

"Do you want to wait with him?"

I tried to speak again. I tried to say something that would make the poor man, if he was alive, if he could hear, understand why I was about to do what I was about to do. I opened my mouth, but I just shook my head and walked away. What does that say about me? What does it say that feeling so helpless and alone and vulnerable makes me wish that you were here, even though I know I'd hate it?

I feel selfish. I feel like a person who walks away from things and then seeks validation. I walked away from you and I knew you didn't even understand that I was doing it. I walked away from this man, and I couldn't even say I was doing it. I know it's different; with you the process took six months of planning and you could have talked me out of it, and with this the process took a split second and I didn't really have total control of my motor skills.
Even so, somehow there seems to be a connection.

It seems fitting that I no longer have the option of crawling into your lap and getting a kiss on my hair. It seems fair that nobody is going to tell me it will all be alright. In fact, I think that's why I walked away from the man. I know that if he was dead, I didn't want to know.