Broken, bloodied, Bacardi bottle

Things tend to pile up, and I try to get them out of my head in due time, but that time seems somewhat lacking. This will be a bit of a rehash of some things that have been crossing my mind over the past week, get some perspective on things.

Possibly the thing that's left me with the most sadness and disgust over the world recently happened late last week.

I had been out drinking with two colleagues, had a rather good evening so far. After going to a few bars (and finding them all crowded beyond the point where entering the bar would be possible), we decide to wander around for a while. Still pleasantly drunk, but also increasingly tired, we were looking for that last stop place for a few beers and calling it a night. Doing so, we passed Copenhagen's courthouse. It lies around fifty meters from a plaza, bustling with people, impressive architecture that really does give one the feeling of being small. The front pylons somewhat obscuring the stairs up to those heavy, wooden doors. The entrance gives the impression of an alcove, which adds to the overall feeling.

Walking past it, we halfway noticed three men arguing inside the alcove, but being tired and drunk, we didn't notice immediately. We managed to walk about ten-fifteen meters past before we realized they weren't arguing as such. Two of the guys were assaulting the last guy.

I remember us walking slower, and eventually stopping to turn around, trying to find out what to do; making decisions while drunk goes a bit slower, and when faced with violence, most of us hesitate.

I've always thought I was strong enough in my conviction to do the right thing, and I still try to be, but it was hard to actually do anything. Violence in films can be awesome, coreographed to beauty, impressive and touching, but violence in reality is ugly, brutal and frightening.

Time stretched, so I reckon it can't have been more than perhaps ten seconds before we actually walked back, but it felt like a long time.

The two assaulters noticed us, and evidently tried to decide what to do. One of them grabbed the shoulder of his friend, and yelled "are you trying to roll him?!", or something similar to that, and the other guy seemed to shake off his bloodlust somewhat, and they lurched off.

The victim staggered to his feet, and began to lurch away. It didn't strike me until afterwards that perhaps he was afraid of us, that we would continue the beating of him.

It was a homeless guy, judging by the looks of him, and in the alcove, we found empty beer bottles...and a broken Bacardi Breezer bottle. With a smear of blood on its side, which was the perfect explanation for the pool of blood that was seeping down the stairs of the courthouse. The bastards had not just set themselves content with beating up on a homeless man, whose only crime was simply to not have run away fast enough, in fact I wouldn't at all be surprised if he was asleep when they accosted him; they had also decided to crack a bottle on his head. When he staggered away from us, he was holding his head, and slipping from side to side.

In some way, that Bacardi Breezer bottle embodied the epitome of excess and decadence, the drink of rich kids, the "have-all" type of people who wear designer clothes that costs enough to feed a homeless for a month, and they decided to use it on a guy, whose life is hard enough already. It makes me sick.

Two assaulters.
One victim.
No chance.

I remember that when I came home that night, and thought about it, it did make me cry. Not because of the unpleasantness of the situation, but more from the sheer amount of insult to my sense of justice this was; beating on a hobo, on the steps to the courthouse, I don't think it could have been a more pathetic show of what's happening around us.

And I felt awful about the knowledge that if we had come by merely a minute earlier, it wouldn't have happened. If we haden't stopped at a bar earlier, or haden't spent a minute discussing where to go next, hell, even if we had just walked a bit faster, there wouldn't have been that god-damn broken Bacardi Breezer bottle staring at me with blood on it.

I should have reacted faster, more decisively, but I hesitated. Drunkeness can only account for so much. Even so, to justify it all, I tell myself that at least we prevented them from really going to town on him, and possibly beating him into a coma. That us showing up prevented things from getting even worse...But I still can't shake the feeling that I could have done more, and better.

...Still can't shake the feeling that I didn't live up to the obligation of doing the right thing, and doing enough of it.

In some bizarre way, I hope I'll get the chance to do it right another time, I don't wish to witness violence, but I do hope that I get a chance to redeem myself in that way, to do the *right* thing and knowing it was what was needed, to save someone. If I can't save a person's soul - which I have learned, painfully - then at least I can perhaps save their body. I've been given a conscience, the ability to know right from wrong, and the responsebility that comes with that, is to not hesitate to help another in need.

I just hope to do better another time.

Added more webcomics

Yah. Nothing important, just added a few more webcomics to the list. Haven't even done any facelifting on the page, but it's probably just as well - leave it to me to find the magical color combination that'll cause epilepsy in healthy people, heh.