Trigger warning: This post may raise issues for readers who have experience with depression or suicide.
By JOSEFA PETE
Then, I saw her.
Dishevelled blonde hair. Pyjamas on. Green polka dot bathrobe catching the breeze. She was walking. In the middle of the road. Against the traffic.
I was filled instantly with dread.
The traffic moved forward.
She kept walking. Slow. Steady. Head hung low. Never looking up.
I reached the intersection of two major crossroads. As I drove through, she kept walking. Slow and steady, against the stream of cars.
I exhaled in disbelief that she survived crossing that intersection without getting hurt.
The drivers in cars around me were furious, raged, annoyed.
Then, as my car crossed the railway line at the end of the crossroad, I saw her again.
She sat down. On the railway tracks. Right in the middle of the intersection.
In a heart-beat, I stopped my car. Grabbed my phone and ran to her side. In my mind I was screaming “No, no, no! You are not doing this on my watch!”
As I reached her, so did another man. He bent low and tried to speak with her, asking her to move.
She was catatonic. Staring straight ahead. Not blinking. Not speaking.
I called 000. “Fire, ambulance or police?”
“All of them,” I said, “and please contact Metro trains we need to stop the trains!”
I spoke at length with 000. All the while, drivers were becoming more and more furious around us. Their anger completely baffled me. Completely.