Pic of the day, part i: Leopard, by George Stubbs
For those of us who have been thrown into hell, mysterious melodies and the torturing images of a vanished beauty will always bring us, in the midst of crime and folly, the echo of that harmonious insurrection which bears witness, throughout the centuries, to the greatness of humanity.
Albert Camus, The Rebel
The young man was dressed like most young men, a careless haphazard mess meant to elicit positive responses in young women and outrage in adults. His long thick wavy brown hair blew in his face in the wind as he went to cross the street. He drank his soda and pushed it out of his face and looked to see what traffic was coming. To his right on the other side of the street a few cars were passing slowly. To his left he could not see, as the van that was parked just to his left had it’s back windows painted. So he took a step out from behind the van to look at the oncoming traffic.
The man in the old station wagon that was driving down the street was not moving particularly fast. He had to drive a little close to the parked cars on his passenger side because of traffic on the other side of the street, but nothing dangerously close. He’d driven closer to fast moving traffic and been fine.
Neither the young man nor the man in the station wagon were expecting to see each other. Neither one did quite in time. When the young man stepped out from behind the van to look out at the oncoming traffic to see if he could cross he was not expecting anything to be that close or moving directly at him. When the man in the station wagon saw the young man step out from in front of the van, he didn’t have enough time to even breathe an expletive.
Neither did the young man. He had the time to think “Oh Shit” But not enough time to say it. He tried to back up, but there was simply no time, nowhere to go.
The bumper of the old station wagon met the young man’s left knee and sent him flying. His head snapped back furiously, and the can of soda hit the back windshield of the car that was on his right. His left leg just below the knee broke on impact. Things in his knee tore at the moment of the crushing, sickening collision of flesh on metal. He flew about 30 feet in the air, landing on his left shoulder, and then skidded. His forehead skidded on the pavement, then the flesh on his arms were torn by the force of the friction between skin and macadam. His elbow slapped the ground with sudden force. A piece of glass lodged in his right arm.
The car screeched to a halt, then seeing the young man fly, the old man did what men sometimes do. He panicked. He hit the gas and bolted from the scene in abject fear. His heart was racing as fast as it ever had. His eyes widened, adrenaline kicked in, and he got tunnel vision. He hit the gas hard, damn near put his foot through the floorboards. He didn’t think. He reacted. He ran. He ran like hell.
The young man lay in the road shaking for a second. Blood pouring from wounds on his face and his arms and left leg. And that left leg was broken. He shook as he sat up. Adrenaline raced through his system and gave him the strength to move.
There were several people in the area, but no one was close enough to do anything just yet.
He got up. Standing on one leg, convulsing, he tried to walk. He put weight on the broken leg, and fell hard to the asphalt, barking and screaming in pain. The people who had seen the accident ran to his aid. A shop owner reached him first. He said “My god. Stay down. Don’t try to get up. Don’t move. I’ll call an ambulance.”
The young man said “Gotta …get home.” in a voice that was deep and ragged and filled with searing pain. The blood that ran from his forehead ran into his eyes, blinding him. He barked and grunted and cried out, but he kept moving. He dragged himself as best as he could, as best as his broken body would allow.
To be continued…
Pic of the day, part ii: A saddled bay hunter, by George Stubbs
“In the light, the earth remains our first and our last love. Our brothers are breathing under the same sky as we; justice is a living thing. Now is born that strange joy which helps one live and die, and which we shall never again postpone to a later time.”
Albert Camus, The Rebel
That’s it from here, America. G’night.