This issue of Blood Writes features Jason's story of being in the wrong parking lot at the wrong time.
Homecoming, October 17-18, 2003 in Laramie, Wyoming. I was out drinking with several friends, old classmates from high school. It was a celebration in a sense that most of us had not seen each other in some time. The partying started early Friday afternoon and lasted well into the early ours of the morning. Copious amounts of booze were downed varying from hard liquor to beer, which was the drink of choice.
The night started out innocently enough with the typical college drinking games at houses before heading to the bars around 10. I was with roughly 20 people that night and we all went to our favorite bar of choice, Mulligans. I was feeling pretty tipsy around midnight and was finally sent over the edge after a double shot of Wild Turkey. I still to this day will throw up when I smell that shit.
After throwing up outside the bar, I walked back in, realized I did not want/need to be drinking anymore, and began my walk home. The walk home was roughly about 2.0-2.5 miles. I figured the walk would sober me up some. However, I did not get very far. Upon leaving the bar, I walked through the parking lot and ran into a guy who was digging in his truck, searching for something.
The man was big, 6'5" and 320 pounds. I am only on a good day 5'7", 150 pounds. The man seemed startled and immediately pulled a knife on me, placing it against my chest. I brushed it off, asking him what the hell he was trying to do. He put the knife back into his pocket, mumbled some inaudible words, and grabbed a cigarette. After a few minutes of trying to talk the guy off the ledge, I decided it was safe to start back on my trek. I turned my back for a split second to walk away from him only to end up tackled from behind with the man's right arm wrapped around my neck and the knife pressed against my neck.
The knife was pointed to enter at about a 45 degree angle to my neck, so it was not against my throat. We wrestled on the ground a bit before the knife started to enter my neck. As we were wrestling, he told me I was going to die. The first thrust in did not quite register at first, but the second sent adrenaline through my veins. I was able to use a few wrestling moves I learned from years and years of wrestling to get away from the man. Sprinting down the alley, I did not know anything was wrong.
When I hit the end of the alley, I fell trying to make the corner. Pushing myself to my feet after making mince meat of my hands, elbows, and knees, I finally saw what had happened. Shooting out over my shoulder like a water fountain was a steady spray of blood. Trying to stay composed and not doing a good job, I walked a few feet before beginning first aid on myself. When I say first aid, it was not like ripping my shirt off and wrapping it around my neck. I squeezed the wound with my hand as best I could. I squeezed hard enough to leave a bruise. Walking a little further, I was able to get into my pocket to grab my cell phone and call 911.
The dispatcher seemed terribly freaked out by the situation and was yelling at me to stay on the phone. Luckily, the ambulance barn was only 4-5 blocks away. I could see the lights, hear the sirens, and shock was kicking in. I had lost a lot of blood at this point and was struggling to keep awake. Before the ambulance arrived I passed out.
By the time I woke up, I was in the hospital getting ready to go into surgery. The police were able to ask me some questions before I went in and they had already arrested the man. I called my parents to let them know I was alright before getting sewed up.
The damage was not as extensive as one might think. The knife had missed the carotid, but nicked the jugular. Veins do not clot if nicked, only if severed. The knife had went in about an inch and the scar was two inches long. It did not hit my throat, but the scar used to be partially over the throat. I had lost 6 pints of blood of the 10 you have in your body. Never received a transfusion throughout this ordeal. I was able to leave the hospital the afternoon of the 18th and had to take the week off from school to recover, which just happened to be midterms.
I went down to show my parents where the incident had happened the next day. You could follow a blood trail down the sidewalk to where I sat on the curb to call 911. A person could still do this almost 3-4 months afterword. The man was sentenced to prison and is scheduled to get out soon.
I forgot to mention that the reason why the big man was pulled over behind the bar was that his girlfriend was driving the truck and he had tried to kill her while she was driving. She pulled the vehicle over and ran off. I happened to be the next person to run into him, an estimated 2-3 minutes later. Just a wrong place, wrong time situation.
Now we're cooking with gas, people. Keep your stories coming, subject line: Blood Week.