The sound of my mother’s voice pierced through my ears like a blow-horn. The fact that she hated my habit of waking up late on weekend holidays irritated me. Those were the only days on which I wouldn’t have to wake up at seven a.m. in the morning!
I tottered along the kitchen, glanced at the large clock, and sighed. Breakfast time was long gone and it was one-thirty p.m. After the usual scolding for waking up late and not being a responsible ‘young-man’, my mother told me to buy her groceries for dinner. Even though I felt lazy and didn’t want to go at all, since I just woke up, I presumed that it would be much better to just leave without any grumpiness, or at least try to, rather than get scolded by her again.
Surprisingly, I was perfectly alright, but the man wasn’t. As I drew nearer to him, I could see blood all over his face, his clothes and his hands. His motor-bike was completely wrecked and everyone around the area had surrounded him. The driver of the truck was apparently missing. It was a horrifying scene; the man lay on the floor like he had no bones. The concerned people called for help, most called the ambulance, some called the police.
Sooner or later, help arrived; time didn’t matter now. I was alive and he was dead. I realized that my mother was right after all, going in the car might have been worse. I would probably be unable to avoid the truck. Thanking God, I walked towards the grocery store, with a sigh of both relief and depression, proceeding with life, as always.