I turned out of my street to walk the two blocks it takes to get to the subway this morning and I already knew that something was wrong. A cop car was blocking incoming traffic, another doing the same not too many feet away. A news van and anchor stood on the other side of the street. The anchor moved around a lot, trying to find a spot in the shade and to keep her hair out of her eyes. More cops in the street, questioning a man in a car. The usually boisterous crowd outside a brownstone on the way was quiet and pensive.
I see an abandoned car with a tiny bullet hole in one of its windows. Just one. But it’s the weirdest thing, the window doesn’t break, it kind of forms this crystallized design. It could almost be considered beautiful. Spots of blood on the sidewalk break my trance.
This is apparently what happened last night, when I went to bed earlier than usual to catch up on sleep. The murder victim was only 25 years old.
The Post interviewed Abner Louima yesterday. The Times has a story about Amadou Diallo’s cousin today. I think I feel sad more than I feel unsafe. Life is too much sometimes.