Reflection.

It was almost like you could feel him regaining consciousness, sense him feeling the warm trickle of blood drip down his face and into his eyes, stinging as it slides its way down. His leg is hurt, you can tell by the way he picks himself up, doing his best to not put much pressure on his left leg, grasping on his way up for anything to catch a hold of, but only finding dirt, rocks and rough, dying bushes around him for support, or lack thereof.

His face was rough, blood caked on, fresh blood trickling over it and his hair a mess, accenting the bags under his eyes. His face was warped and was, for the longest time my definition of violence. Maybe it wasn't the malice in his eyes, the open wounds or pouring blood as much as it was the indifference of the cars whizzing by him that struck me with fear. Regardless of the shape he was in, something was clearly horribly wrong. Something is horribly wrong.

Maybe it wasn't malice in his eyes and just pain, just that the blood, the bags and the pain all reflected that made that strong impression, but the reality and gravity associated with a man on the side of the road beaten and battered without anyone giving a second glance. Whatever it was, the malice was so real and was so thick that it was marring the air around me, each breath I was taking feeling like it was taxing my heart to its fullest. He staggered out into the road, a car putting on its turn signal and switching lanes seemlessly, to avoid both hitting him and engaging him, instead leaving him at the mercy of the next wave of cars, all doing the same, this time a different lane.

The median tripped him up, his body crashing like a wave, face first into the dirt -- narrowly missing a rock. Just when I felt that my breathing couldn't grow more erratic, the closer he gets the heavier the world feels on me. As he picks himself up again you can see the pained look and just how heavy this all is weighing upon him. I want to move back, to turn around and run away, but I'm frozen in place by the sight of him, and the world flying by like he isn't there.

His composure somewhat regained, he lurches forward, stumbling over a rock, but staying on his feet. It is at this point that his eyes raise and lock with mine. I'm locked into his trance now, not able to look away or as much as blink. An overwhelming sense of both fear and comfort has washed over me as step-by-step he comes closer and closer.

The injured left leg drags behind him slightly, the foot at an inhuman angle to match the vacant look in his eyes. Cars are whizzing by behind him still, but the road between him and me feels like an empty two-dimensional plane. His form just keeps growing and growing as he moves closer to me, there is no moving right or left, its just straight through to me.

I can smell the breath and the burnt, rotting flesh now; it is overwhelming at first, but I can't stand to cough, gasp or look away. He keeps sliding towards me, blood trickling down his face, seeping into the crevices on his face and highlighting his already-defined features. My heartbeat quickens and my breathing grows more and more erratic as he grows closer. My legs feel like they are just dead weight now, bolted into the sidewalk I stand on. I can't hear a thing outside of his heavy breathing, or the gurgling sound of the blood in his throat. He stops for a second to spit out some of the blood and wipe it from his face, leaving streaks across the side of his face and neck. He reaches out for me with his bloody hand, stumbling forward letting out a gasp as a car horn quickly fades in, is interrupted by a loud thud and a smash before it fades out, the man now laying on the ground not moving, his body pushed 10 feet back.

If he wasn't dead yet, he was now, but I'm not sure anybody but me knew he existed.