opinios

But this man had something different; he shuffled past me and I glanced up at the grey stubble on his chin, scrolled past his pained, beady eyes to see a fresh splat of blood on his forehead. He was in a world of his own, and muttered with bewilderment:

"Fancy running into him!"

I glanced down at his chest. It was splattered with more blood; a gash at the base of his neck spilled down across his chest, and before I quickly averted my stare to avoid drawing attention I saw a big drop of dark red fall from his nose�c I was shocked. This man clearly needed medical attention. But trusting my instincts, he also looked dangerous - it was likely that he had just been in a rather nasty fight, and I was unsure whether my own safety was worth risking to go to his aid. And what could I do anyway?

The train pulled up. My injured, dazed colleague stumbled onto one carriage, still dripping and mumbling, and I deliberately slipped onto a carriage some distance away.

It took a couple of hours before I stopped seeing the bleeding man whenever I shut my eyes, and for my conscience to stop preying on me when I opened them.

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Submitted by Matthew Magain