ANA ORTIZ

There’s somebody . . . I don’t know who he is . . . I want to take this time to apologize to him. I don’t know your name. I don’t know what you look like.

 

You were in the Bronx about seven years ago. Let’s see, it was outside the 180th Street stop on the 2, close to one in the morning. I don’t remember the name of the street anymore.

 

But right there, under the elevated tracks, at the intersection, on the left as you go east, one night seven years ago . . . I saw you.

 

It was very dark there. All I wanted to do was to get home. So I’m walking fast ’cause I hate that street and I almost didn’t see you. But I did see you.

 

Two men were holding you by the arms and they where slamming you headfirst into the front of a parked car. I couldn’t see your face. The two guys were laughing. You fell to the ground. I only watched for a second.

 

I got out of there as fast as I could. I went home. I didn’t call the cops. I didn’t call for help. I didn’t jump in to break it up. I didn’t go back later to see if you were okay. I didn’t do nothing but run. Protect my ass.

 

For a second I actually convinced myself that you guys were playing some kind of game, maybe you were just kids.

 

I’m sorry. If you’re out here. If you’re hearing this. I was the one who walked away that night and left you there and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you in seven years and I thought, here, now, this would be the time to say I was sorry. This would be the time.

 

Please forgive me, sir. Please forgive me.