05

My eyes threaten to jump out of orbits, so growing is my astonishment.

“How can you still be alive?” I question, strange how my voice sounds higher than usual. “And why the hell can this infernal night only get even worse?”

A frantic activity begins on my back. Desperate passengers who unite to evaluate the dead policeman, security guards of the station itself who appear from the side doors as if all that time they were waiting for a triumphal entrance, and those who ignore the floor decorated with a generous trail of blood and untie in a blind race, in order to escape from any future confusion and encountering more bodies. I don't blame them, running away is exactly what I should have done.

My survival policy has always been very clear: If something terrible is happening, and it's not my problem, I shouldn't get involved. My mistake was to hesitate for fear that this could further harm my sudden state of shock. The man wounded at my feet is partly to blame for this fact.

Speaking of him, after a silence that does not last more than a heartbeat, he grumbles a long moan. That eye that used to watch me, is now closing with trembling eyelids.

“Just help me get up, don't let them get close... I need... I can't draw attention.” Your voice is hoarse, loaded with vulnerability and pain. Even listening to him speak is too agonizing for me.

Apparently, in addition to the severely injured face and the visible bloody wound at the height of his stomach, the blows are not limited to the upper parts of the subject's body. A large elevation in your left thigh is amazing enough to twist my bowels in a crescent nausea, and not even the tight fabric of the dark jeans can hide the way your right knee looks compacted to the floor, crushed under fabrics and flesh.

The beating, as I allow myself to analyze, is part of a substitute package of humiliation to which this man had been subjected. Whatever problems he got into, I can't see in which world a punishment where each piece of his body is reduced to shrapnel can be accepted as a payment.

Faced with such brutality, I am taken by a strong torrent of compassion. Even if my conduct follows a path contrary to the decisions I make, this time, I feel that the right thing is far from being to ignore and move forward. Therefore, I lower myself with caution and with the same care and attention, I take the hand of the unknown to my shoulder, positioning him better so that I can support him.

When the man is standing and unstable like a newborn, I realize that my intention to support him by the armpit on my shoulder will not work properly. Perhaps its height reaches one meter and ninety-five - or the wide shoulders, which support strong and voluminous muscles, tensioned under the heavy clothes, serve as an illusion to complement their size - but, compared to mine one meter and sixty, and the franzine complicity with which I am graced, I have some difficulty controlling my own grimaces of pain.

Disconcertingly cold and trembling, he drags one of his legs and balances himself in the one with a strange knee. The unknown inspires with difficulty and opens the healthy eye.

“Help me get anywhere isolated... Far from... Away from people's attention.”

A relative number of people have just gone down the steep iron staircase, their faces ranging from predictable concern to excessive curiosity. Following my gaze, the man seems restless, and leans on me so strongly that his fingers - more curved and inflexible than normal - painfully dig my shoulder.

“Try not to break any of my bones too, comrade” I grumble, not knowing where I should put my hands to maintain your balance. I decide to touch your waist, where one of your arms is already bent with the hope of containing the blood that continues to flow vividly and thick. “I can't get you out of here without drawing attention.”

He coughs hard, shaking himself completely, and attracts the attention of a couple of curious people. I try to move so that your weakness is not a cause for alert, however, your weight almost takes me to the ground as well. Tilting the trunk forward, spits the blood into my feet and grumbles something inaudible. I think I may have spoken in another language, but at this moment, I don't have full control of my intelligence to know where this growl comes from.

“Just keep walking, beautiful girl. I make my own way when I'm out of here.” He murmurs, gluing his strong and brittle body to mine. I venture to say that there is a shadow of black humor in your words.

And so, we take an oscillating path in the face of frightened and prudent looks. No one stops us, not even the police, whose car parked in front of the entrance to the station does not go unnoticed by the man next to me. I do not fail to notice the way your body shudders in a burst of doubt as we trace a path on the sidewalk illuminated by neon lights and sheltering some confused people. I ignore everything that has nothing to do with my path. The looks of others, however, burn on our back even after a corner away.