The Sound of a Gunshot

I heard a gunshot and saw him through the dark from my open door
fall to the street.

This is an anonymous story, as told by Aurora Wells about a man’s experience of witnessing a man shot to death. Our “Opening Our Hearts” stories are based on people’s real-life experiences with grief and loss. By sharing these experiences, we hope to help our readers feel less alone in their grief, and ultimately aid them in their healing. 

You hear noises in this city every day. Even in a neighborhood quiet as mine.

You think, what was that?

You think, it’s probably just fireworks. Or maybe a tire popping.

“You think, it’s probably just fireworks. Or maybe a tire popping.”

(And it probably was.)

So that night, when a noise like a gunshot interrupted my conversation with a visiting friend, and I silently crept to my door (that just happened to be open), I expected to see a cat darting under a car. Or maybe nothing at all.

Instead, I saw someone lying in the street, maybe 50 or 60 yards from my apartment. Two shadowy figures ran from the fallen man in opposite directions: a male sprinting down the street and a female up the street, the faint clatter of heels echoing her pace. I heard the grunt of an ignition. Tires screeched. My eyes snapped back to the fallen man.

“The shape of his body, illuminated by street lamps, is written in my memory with indelible chalk.”

I thought, Oh my God. Someone has just been shot in front of my apartment.

The shape of his body, illuminated by street lamps, is written in my memory with indelible chalk.

After that, most details are lost. I vaguely remember picking up the phone and dialing 9-1-1. I threw some clothes on and dashed out the door. Kneeling at the young man’s side, I said, help is on the way. I said, hang in there.

Windows lit up along the block. Two or three neighbors stood behind me (a few chased the discordant clip of heels up the street, to the victim’s traumatized companion). We said to him, stay with us.

He said, “I’ve been shot.” And slipped into unconsciousness. Those would be his last words.

There was no blood I can recall.

The police really cared and wanted to help the dead man. Their genuine concern deeply impacted me.

The next image burned into my memory is the sight of the wound, when the ambulance removed his shirt and lifted him onto a stretcher. I don’t know if a bullet shot from such close range cauterizes skin, or maybe the medics had wiped his chest clean, but I could see it perfectly: a tiny hole underneath his right nipple.

“I don’t know if a bullet shot from such close range cauterizes skin, or maybe the medics had wiped his chest clean, but I could see it perfectly: a tiny hole underneath his right nipple.”

Such a small puncture, from which an entire life escaped.

After the ambulance wailed away, the police questioned me about the shadowy figure that sped off — and I wished so badly I could describe the killer beyond his white t-shirt.  If I had only managed to see his license plate, a series of letters and numbers that could spell justice for the man who died outside my home.

An hour ago, he had been strolling down my street with a date, on a night like any other. Now he was gone.  It seemed impossible that someone could take so much for so little; a young life for a leather wallet.

“An hour ago, he had been strolling down my street with a date, on a night like any other. Now he was gone.  It seemed impossible that someone could take so much for so little; a young life for a leather wallet.”

The police were compassionate, tough and determined. They wanted to do right by the fallen man. They wanted to help people.

It got later and later until it was early, and I was still unable to sleep. I stared out my window in a surreal daze. Back in my boxers, I tapped the cool glass and thought about the night’s events: my first encounter with death.

It dawned on me, at an imprecise moment, that maybe I could help people too.

I went back to bed, the seed sewn.

The next morning, the young man’s death was confirmed. He had a famous father and it was in the news. Steadily, over the months that followed, my hiccup of a revelation grew to a great conviction with six-foot roots…

The answer seemed simple. I enrolled in the San Francisco Police Academy. My life was never to be the same again.