Spectating

I can't imagine dying like this, in a place like this; on a cold, dirty pavement with rush hour traffic screaming by and a crowd looking on while paramedics struggle to find space to move. Who could? Deep down we all think there should be a reason, a moment of clarity... or a family presence, at least. For this man, this boy, the rail thin woman lighting a cigarette in a faux fur jacket will have to do - she's been here since the start, her eyes tracking the movement of my shoulders as we fight to keep him on the right side of the line.

He's younger than I expected, but it's hard to tell what age he could be when the dirt is so ingrained in the fine lines of his face that it may as well be a part of him. Tangled in the remnants of his sleeping bag he looks like a baby; under the eyes of the commuting crowd, a villain. They mutter and touch their chests as he bag of skin covered bones that makes up his body shakes. Their eye only see the bruises and scars and track marks that cover his greyish skin.

"There but for the grace of god..."

That's what it sounds like, one woman's mutter, and I'd like to ask her when Gods middle names became pain and poverty but there's no time. There's never enough time.

Crack!

A rib breaks with a sound like a whiplash, sending a shudder through the spectating crowd, and his baby blue eyes, unmoving in the fine smirr of rain, stare up at me with a hidden smile.

"They see me now," they seem to whisper, "they can't help but see me now."

It's true; this motley crew of onlookers are in the middle of an awakening. They've spent months carefully looking away from the boy in the lime green sleeping bag, and now the can't tear their eyes away. They aren't scared to make eye-contact anymore.

"Rest." Sarah brings us to a halt and the world stops for a precious few breaths. We're ruined, sweating, steaming in the cold air like lathered horses. The seconds seem to slow down as the ache sets in. Air hisses into his lungs, they grope for a pulse. Everyone's watching his lips go blue, but I'm watching the dog. Just a sweet little thing cowering in the remnants of his makeshift shelter. It's hard not to notice how clean it is, how well-fed compared to the boy in the sleeping bag. Hard not to notice the small bag of dog food next to the half empty bottle of cheap vodka.

"Time of death 8.57 am." She says without inflection.

There it is; the end of the line. A lonely train pulls away, stealing the last of the glimmer from his eyes. The crowd melts away with it, but an old man in a brown leather jacket stoops and gently lifts the shivering dog and it's meagre supply of food. He turns to give us a sad smile before he totters on his way just as the next wave of commuters roll in to watch the roadside funeral.