Walter walked slowly, trench coat wrapped tightly about him, staring up at the black sky as snowflakes drifted downward and crowded the streets. He watched couples pass merrily hand in hand, stopping under streetlights, the steam from their breath rising and entwining as their lips met. He looked at them with cold indifference; but still he looked. The silhouette of a man and woman haunted a nearby doorway; they were kissing, pressed against the frame, hands roaming. Walter quickly averted his eyes. Two blocks further and he would be home, though he found little comfort in the idea. The landlady was home and the rent was due. He expected a large argument to initiate the moment he stepped through the door.
He saw a pimp, clad in a purple pinstriped suit and feathered hat, standing at the corner waiting for the light to change and the onslaught of cars to stop. The pimp pulled out a cigarette and lit it, his eyes fixed on the stoplight. He saw Walter staring and pulled the brim of his hat over his eyes.
Two or three cars passed and the light changed, but the pimp did not move; he was still watching Walter. Finally he seemed to decide on what to do; he turned the corner sharply, nearly jogging down the snow-covered street, holding the brim of his hat over his face with his hand.
Walter watched him in mild confusion; he wasn't Rorschach, so why did he run? He dismissed the thought easily and continued on his way. Three doors down from his building he saw the cause of the pimps apparent distress; a prostitute, dressed in mini-shorts, fishnet stockings, stilettos and a bloody blue two-toned jacket, lay face-down in the three-inch deep snow, a halo of blood around her head. He stared at her for a moment, feeling no pity or grief. "Better off dead."
He turned away, and just as he neared his building he heard a loud, distinct groan from behind him.
He was tempted to just ignore it, but then he thought of Kitty Genovese. He refused to be included in that percentage that watched as the innocent were exterminated and the guilty raped and ravaged as they pleased. He refused to be human backwash.
He turned slowly to find the prostitute just as still as she had ever been, except for the twitching of the fingers of her left hand.
He made his way back to her and knelt, turning her over on her back and grimaced internally.
The prostitute was a young black girl; she couldn't have possibly been over 13. Her hair was short and black; loose locks fell gently onto her brown face. Her long black lashes rested gently on her swollen, purple cheeks, her split brow creaseless, and he would have assumed her dead once again if not for the soft puffs of congealed air that rose from her blue and bloody lips. Frozen blood caked under her nose and at her temple and her body was stiff with cold.
Knowing the nearest hospital to be at least 30 minutes away by foot he lifted her over his shoulder and started toward his building for the third time that night.