A Helping Hand

TRIGGER WARNING: Mention of death and suicide.

If there was anything my life had taught me, it was to stand on my own two feet. Now, living is a complicated thing, and nature has a way of maintaining balance, see? Survival of the fittest. Take, for instance, those baby animals on the Discovery channel- for them, it’s sink or swim. Their mother teaches them the skills necessary to their survival, and in the end, it all comes down to them. Them. Not some good Samaritan who happens by during a time of their intense suffering. Not some paid hero or some blubbering politician who makes promises they can’t keep. No- life, I’d realized, will knock you down and continue doing it until you learn to rely on yourself. Afterall, we were born alone, and we will die the same way. Or so I thought.

               It was late May, and the sun set later. The air was warm and humid, as it always is this time of year in the South. My best friend, Carli and I had spent three hours waiting in line and another three for the show to start. The Hemmingways were performing tonight at Antoine Station Pavilion, and thousands of screaming fans were in attendance. Lights were set up all around the stage and dotting the perimeter of the property. Security drifted around, some with trained dogs, and the smell of food and bodies permeated the evening air.

               The Hemmingways had just finished playing their first set- and already, Carli was crying.

               “Carli! You promised you wouldn’t do that!” I couldn’t help myself. I laughed.

Carli swiped at her eyes, where the mascara had run, and chuckled.

               “You know I can’t help it, Em. That song gets me every time.”

Carli never said so, but I suspected the song, “Always”, brought back memories she would have rather forgotten. Memories of her ex-boyfriend Jeff, and their terrible breakup.

               “Want another corn dog?”

               Carli sniffed and smiled, shaking her head. During her mourning period, she’d lost considerable weight; I’d made it my mission to see to it that she was eating regularly.

               The Hemmingways started playing their second song- this one livelier, thank goodness, and Carli issued an ear-splitting scream. I laughed and shook my head, taking a sip of my soda. The chorus drifted out over our heads, like clouds after a storm, and all over the crowd began screaming, just like Carli had, drowning out the music altogether.

               “I never knew this song was so popular-“

Several things happened then, and though the news reports would later claim it lasted no more than three minutes, to me, it lasted a lifetime.

               Carli turned to see past my left shoulder, and as the screams intensified, and Carli wore a mask of terror. A series of loud “pops!” rang out behind me, like gunfire. I jumped and spun around to get a glimpse of the commotion. The crowd parted like a sea of ants, and the screaming grew louder still, as pandemonium took hold. The band had stopped playing, ushered off the stage by security.

               Carli was being carried away as the crowd surged. She shouted and fought against the the mass of bodies, to no avail. The gunshots erupted again, and in my confused state, I counted six shots. Something hard plowed into me from behind, knocking me on my face. I groaned as someone stepped on my hand during their escape, and someone else used my shoulder as a springboard. The gunfire continued in spurts, and the screams echoed; Suddenly the placid night had turned into a night of terror.

               I tasted blood in my mouth and between my teeth. My left hand ached as I got to my knees, cradling it to my chest. I suspected it was broken. I couldn’t seem to get to my feet- my right leg kept giving out. It wasn’t until the third attempt at standing that I looked down and saw the blood and felt the intense pain in my right thigh. I’d been shot. I looked all around for Carli, finding her gone. My body had begun its process of panic- a delayed reaction, but powerful. My heart hammered in my chest, and it became harder to catch my breath. My hand and my leg hurt, and every few seconds, someone would knock me over and step on me.

               I’d begun to scream and cry, desperate as I was trampled and bleeding and gasping for air. Was Carli alright? I glanced up to look for her again, terrified. Two more shots pierced the night sky, and the screams were fewer, as most of the audience was fleeing the gunman, whom I had not seen yet. Where were the security officers and their dogs? Where was the band that had the power to make my best friend cry? And the bright lights and delicious food smells? All at once the comfort of the night had been shattered, an illusion ripped away from an unwitting crowd.

               Then, another sound of footsteps. Panicked gripped me as I tried to scan the dark, searching for the shooter- had he spotted me? Every second was agonizing as my leg bled onto the pavement and the screams echoed in the dark. How many others lay dead or dying all around me, targeted by a madman? I whimpered, burying my face in the asphalt. The feet stopped running and stopped near my head. I held my breath and played dead. Perhaps if the shooter thought I was already gone, he wouldn’t see a need to hurt me again.

               “Hey, it’s okay. He’s gone,” a man’s voice whispered.

I kept my eyes closed, terrified to risk it. What if this was just some twisted trick?

               “My name is Alan,” he told me. “I’m a paramedic. I’m here to help you.”

               I decided to risk it. I cracked open one eye followed by the other and peered up at the man hovering over me. His hair was damp, and his face streaked with perspiration. He had blood spatters on his shirt- and I looked away quickly, determined not to stare.

               “Your leg is bleeding. I’m going to tie a belt around it to staunch the flow and get you over to a safe zone. Can you stand if I help you?”

               I nodded my head, and Alan went to work removing his belt and tying it around my injured leg. The pressure hurt, but it did its job, and the bleeding stopped. Without a word, Alan extended his hand to me and hauled me up, guiding my arm around his shoulders.

               “How many?” I asked him in a quivering voice. I kept my eyes trained on the ground in front of us. I didn’t want to see the carnage.

               “Let’s concentrate on getting you out of here miss-“

               “Emily Langford,” I told him.

               After what seemed like an eternity, we made it to the edge of the property, where police cars congregated and witnesses collected, recounting the whole horrific incident in detail. Alan promised to return later and darted back to the scene, despite the protests of a pair of officers. I eased myself onto a parking median, wrapping my arms around myself for comfort. The night was not cold, but I shivered anyway. I listened as the officers coordinated. I craned my neck to look up into the night sky at the helicopter that searched the surrounding areas for the culprit. Time passed in a blur, and eventually Alan returned, just as he’d promised, guiding me into one of the ambulances, and away from the venue, littered with cups and confetti.

               I don’t know how many hours I spent at the hospital; time sped by in a haze, jumbled and surreal. I wondered if it had been a dream, but I knew the nightmare was real. I woke hours later in the post-operative room with a headache and dry mouth. I tried to ask the nurses about Carli, but none of them recognized the name.

               I never saw Carli again. Later, I learned that she’d also been battered down by the crowd, causing her death. The following weeks, I felt every emotion there was- despair for the loss of my friend. Anger at the gunman and those who stepped on Carli while making their own escape. If only one of them had offered her a hand up, like Alan had done for me. If only. Most of all, though, I was plagued by guilt so heavy that it suffocated me. The concert was my idea; An effort to cheer Carli up after a particularly bad breakup.

               I slipped further and further into my depressive state; hardly eating or leaving the house. My grief consumed me, dominating every part of who I was. My sleep was disturbed and filled with nightmares. One Sunday, I found myself sitting on the bedroom floor with a gun cocked and ready, and a note lying on the dresser beside me. How had this happened? I considered myself to be strong; But this event crippled me. I felt broken and irreparable. I felt alone.

The wind blew outside the open window, and the windchime sang. It was a sound so soft and lovely, reminding me of my late friend’s laugh. Carli’s laugh was infectious, just like her smile. I thought of all the others who were there that night. According to the news, there were six fatalities. Six souls were stricken down by a stranger with a weapon. The police apprehended him hours after the attack. I held the gun out in front of me, inspecting it. What would Carli say if she could see me now? Would she be angry with me for disregarding the life that was stolen from her? I knew in my heart I didn’t want to die. Despite the pain, I wanted to live. I wanted to heal. It was then that I decided to see a therapist. I packed the gun away and tore up the note.

               Two weeks later, I sat in the waiting room of Andrea Moore’s office. There was a pair of couches, firm and comfortable, and a shiny table that held a crystal lamp. A stack of magazines sat on top of the table, each with a mental health theme. The room smelled pleasant, like the ocean. Someone cleared his throat. I looked up to see him sitting in the chairs opposite me, across the waiting room. His sandy brown hair had been trimmed and he wore a pressed collar shirt with khakis. My eyes swam with unshed tears when I recognized him.

               “Alan?”

He smiled at me and rose, making his way over to where I sat. I stood too, embracing him. He patted my back, and we stood there like that, each of us containing our own grief while comforting one another.

               “Fancy meeting you here,” he teased.

               I nodded.

               “It was time to talk about it, I guess,” I confessed awkwardly.

               “I understand,” he told me. “It was time for me too.”

We stood there in silence, the air pregnant with things we were too uncertain to say.

               “I lost my friend in the stampede,” I blurted.

               His face fell, the friendly smile replaced by naked pity. I fished a photograph of Carli out of my purse- I carried her with me, now- and handed it over to him. I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to share this with him, but I did, and something inside of me relaxed. His eyes widened and he looked up at me in shock.

               “This girl was Carli?”

I accepted the photo back and nodded, confused.

               “Did you two know eachother?”

               Alan’s face paled, and he looked down at his shoes to hide the tears that streaked down his face.

               “No, but she saved me.”

               “Carli… saved you?”

Another nod.

               “I’d been knocked over by the crowd. I was trying to get back on my feet when she stopped in front of me. She turned back and held her hand out to me. She pulled me to my feet.”

               My chest burned and my eyes filled with tears. Carli’s final act was rescuing my rescuer. My best friend, small and shy, had turned back toward the chaos to haul someone else to his feet.

               “Emily... she saved me.”

               “She saved us both,” I said.