Formative Failures: Blood on Bitumen
We’d been called to check on a male in psychosis—smoking meth. Word was, if police came near him, he’d try to kill himself.
He was big. Covered in blood already. We didn’t know if it was his or someone else’s. No uniformed units could go. No ambulance. Just us—negotiators in an unmarked car. No sirens. No vests. Just the training.
We spotted him walking down a side street.
He smiled.
He knew who we were. The kind of guy who’s seen too many unmarked cars up close.
Then he bolted—straight into a car park.
We followed. He jumped the kerb and ran into a six-lane road. Traffic everywhere. He was holding scissors.
He was heading straight toward a group of ten or twelve people outside a shop. We didn’t know what he was about to do. Could’ve been anything. If we didn’t beat him there, we might’ve had to shoot him.
We tried to split—go wide, box him in.
But he doubled back. Ran right between us. Back toward the road.
Then a lady—just a driver in the wrong place—hit him with her car. Just enough to send him to the ground. My off-sider tased him. Dropped him flat. Scissors slid across the asphalt.
I jumped on top to hold him down.
That’s when it got weird.
I grabbed his arm to cuff him—and it felt wrong. Like I’d stuck my hand into fish gills or jelly. That’s when I realised… he’d been cutting his wrists while we chased him.
Blood was everywhere.
I cuffed him so he couldn’t hurt himself anymore. Ran to the car, grabbed the tac med gear, came back. That’s when I saw the bright pink.
Fluoro pink blood.
Arterial.
It wasn’t just his wrists. When I thought he was trying to put the scissors in his bag, he was jamming them into his collarbone—into his neck.
I shoved in QuickClot. My fingers inside his shoulder, trying to find a vein to clamp. Couldn’t. Just packed and held.
He kept trying to move. Kept trying to die.
We held him down until the ambos arrived. They sedated him and rushed him to hospital.
And then we just stood there.
Covered in blood.
We washed off with warm soapy water. I had grazes—on my side, under my shirt. We weren’t sure. We called the hospital, but they wouldn’t tell us anything. Medical confidentiality.
So I waited.
Three months.
Didn’t sleep with anyone. Didn’t kiss anyone. Didn’t make plans. Didn’t tell people why. Just waited.
No one checked in. No calls. No psychologist. Nothing.
Eventually I got cleared.
Everyone laughed it off. Said, “See? No drama.”
But they didn’t live in my skin for three months.












