A bad day

Being dead seems to be a really awful way to start out a Saturday morning.

Seeing the dead person on the way to work is also pretty bad, albeit not as bad as actually being the dead person.

I was on my way to the theater factory this morning, sun shining down and the wind blowing the way it blows on beautiful Atlanta mornings in October, when I heard the sirens. Lots of sirens. Loud, persistent, take notice of me sirens. As I approached the City Hall East block of Ponce, I could see a goat fuck of official looking vehicles, including forty-eleven police cars, at least two crime scene investigation vans, and two ambulances. In the middle of the fray, lying face down in the middle of the center, east bound lane, was an woman. Kind of heavy-set, she was wearing black sweat pants and a white t-shirt with some sort of black slip on shoes. Amazingly, she still had on both of her shoes. The strangest thing was her back pack. It was sitting in the road, directly to her right, like she had placed it there, then decided to lie down and nap for bit. There was no blood or gore, just a woman who seemed to be resting.

I don't know who she is or how she died. I want to know. I want to know what happened to that woman. What kind of violence ends with someone face down in the middle of a busy street in my neighborhood, their back pack placed carefully beside them, as if not to spill the contents.