As I walked up the second flight of stairs to my apt, my brain processed something my eye had seen–blood. Drops of it. Almost perfectly circular splotches of blood dripped onto the cement floor of the steps and the landings–from the first floor ascending up to the 4th. Or was it the other way around? The blood was closest to the wall–so maybe the person was wounded on their left upper extremity and was holding his/her arm? Or maybe it was somebody carrying somebody else? The splotches were between six inches to a foot from one another, too regular to be anything but a nasty flesh wound. Some of the blood was dripped onto the spaces between the steps. A bullet? A knife? A bad argument? An act of passion? A premeditated act of violence?
The blood was spilled between Thursday and Saturday sometime. By whom? Who knows. I followed the trail to the curb whre it unceremoniously ended. Probably a waiting vehicle. Probably NOT destined for the hospital.
Nothing like dripping blood to bring you back to earth. To cement the thin line between sanctity and sin. To remind you of your own frailty, of the frailty of life itself, of the eternal protection of a loving God who shields you from the seedier aspects of life.