please help me

He was in hysterics. Part of his lip was pink and dewy, as though a segment had been carefully sliced by a scalpel. "Why are they doing this to me!" He was shrieking. "What do they want from me!" He was kicking up dirt and smacking his hands against his head and my heart was pounding and I was at an utter loss. There were cracked and blistered abrasions on one of his arms, and as he labored for breath, tears muddied his jaw. Looking wildly and directly into my eyes, he pleaded, "Make them stop!"

The whole ordeal started earlier this evening when I stopped at a light getting off the freeway. It was about 5:00PM and a man stood downcast on the side of the off-ramp with a black backpack at his feet and a cardboard sign in hand reading, Please help me. 

I rolled down my window and spoke with him for a moment, and as the light turned green, I shook his hand and learned that his name is Joshua. But after pulling away from him, I decided to turn around and go back. I circled and found my way into a parking lot, then got out of the car and joined him on the side of the road.

He seemed glad for the company and the conversation, and as we talked, he related an incoherent story, making it that much more heart-breaking. He was in his late twenties, polite, soft-spoken, homeless, hungry, and in all likelihood, schizophrenic. 

As near as I can tell, Joshua has been sleeping beneath an overpass for the past six months. He gets his food from the occasional soup kitchen, from Sacred Heart, and from the few dollars he can scrape up in alms. 

But not long into our time together, Joshua's dialogue turned to relating how, standing right where he was, he had recently been struck by a car. I tried to figure out when, but he never could get around to telling me--my guess is that it had to be within the last couple days. He lifted his shirt at one point and showed me the bruises. I asked him if the driver had stopped, and he said he didn't know--he was thrown from his feet with the wind knocked out of him, and that's all he could say. He described how when he landed, the pain welled-up into his chest (and here he made a grand gesture to emphasize the gathering of the pain), and how at the time he could neither scream nor breathe. His face was knotted in anguish as he described the incident, and he seemed to be struggling to relate the magnitude of his pain. I asked him if he had gone to the hospital, and at that question he just shattered.

"I know they're listening!" he yelled, his arms beginning to tremble while his face stretched toward mine.

"Who?" I asked, taking a step back.

"They're testing me, to see if I'm faking!" He flung his sign and began to pace. "I-can't-take-this!" he screamed, the blood vessels bulging in his neck and face. "Get me out of here!" he called to someone unseen.

"Joshua, I'm right here," I said, failing to soothe.

He picked up his hat and began to yell into it: "You can kill me! You can kill me!" 

This tortured display went on for a few minutes, until finally his volume dropped. "I'm so scared," he said, having spent his energy. "A car drove by after I was hit and said, 'Did you like that, Joshua? We're watching you!'" And at this he seized my hands: "Why would he say that?"

I couldn't see any use trying to reason with him. I simply asked, "Joshua, could I come visit you a bit later? I'd like to see where you're staying, and maybe we can talk some more."

He wiped his eyes and nodded. He pointed to the overpass, described where he slept, and explained how to find his spot.

At about 7:00PM I went back to find him.

I walked along the side of the road, against traffic, and eventually, as the road rose, I stepped off the asphalt and into the wilds that grew up along this particular stretch.

As the area beneath the overpass grew close, so did the deplorable signs of inhumane habitation. Strewn across the dirt and dried grass were at first two water-logged books and a spoon, then a pile of ruined pants, shirts, and socks, a broken box spring, and a torn suitcase, a tire, and finally a pitiful pair of underwear, tissue-thin, spread out delicately across some thistles.

I paused at the steps hewn in the rocky earth that led down and under the road. Balancing just out of view, I noticed a tent about a hundred feet away, but just then my footing gave way and I barely caught myself before sliding with the loose dirt and gravel toward the bottom of the severe incline. 

Steadying myself, I called out, "Joshua?" No answer. "Joshua?" Nothing.

I bent down to see into the cramped quarters beneath the bridge. There didn't appear to be anyone there ... but there were a number of darkened niches that I couldn't make out, so I announced myself again. I stood still for about a minute, straining to detect any movement. Then, compulsively looking back over my shoulder, I stepped down and underneath the massive structure of steel and cement.

And there I was, standing before Joshua's home: a concrete platform where the under-side of the overpass met the side of the ravine, laid-over with a mildewed futon and a couple of sleeping bags. Cars and trucks rumbled only five or six feet above my head as I looked around, wide-eyed, taking in the squalor. There were ghostly images in soot that covered segments of the walls and ceiling, and filth was everywhere. I imagined the terrors Joshua must face down there, having to make it through each night all alone with no one to comfort him, no one to tell him that everything would be alright. 

On the mattress was a small pillow, covered in dirt and ringed with water stains. Joshua.