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Worse Than Me

I sat on one of the old, weathered, graffiti covered benches under a tree. My feet impatiently tapped the ground, crunching the leaves in their haste. The wind whistled harshly through the surroundings, my hair whipping my face that I discretely shoved behind my ear. My hands, underneath my thighs, felt tingly, and I could feel the rough grain of the wood imprint on my skin as the pressure remained.

A radio in a car was playing some 90s songs while kids were running and screaming at the top of their lungs. I glowered at the ground. Why do I even bother to come here? Every little thing just irritates me to no end, like the beeping of a microwave when it’s done heating the food, and no one stops it. Every sound, every footstep seemed to echo in my ears.

If I have ever felt peace in my life, I would gladly go back and relive it over and over again.

A little girl tripped on the pavement, crying out when she scraped her knee. I looked up to see blood running down her leg, just a little. Nothing too serious.

But the worst thing was that nobody was even trying to help the poor young girl. They just kept reading a magazine, or watching their kids play around. What has this world come to, to not help a child in need? How ridiculous.

I stood up from my place, walked slowly over to the girl, and when I was a few feet away I asked softly, “Do you need some help?”


The girl didn’t look up at me, but nodded her head and rubbed her eyes. I sat down next to her ‘pretzel’ style. The small first aid kit in my bag wasn’t the best, but it would have to do.

I wiped the blood from her knee with those disposable wet clothes and carefully cleaned the wound. I stuck a band- aid on it.

The eyes that were suddenly looking up at me were truly shocking. They were the bluest, the brightest, and magnificent colored eyes I had ever seen.

“T-thanks,” she said softly, and sniffled.

I helped her up to her feet and waited until she was steady enough to let go. “Where’s your mommy?”

“She’s with God.”

My heart broke, if that was even possible. The sadness, the mere slight frown on her face when she said that was utterly indescribable. How could this sweet, innocent little girl go through life without her mother, the one person that she needs the most? It wasn’t fair.

Just then, a middle aged man jogged up to us wearing jeans and a plain shirt. He glanced at me, then picked up the little girl.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely.

I nodded, and watched as they strode away to live their life. The girl looked over her father’s shoulder to me and smiled slightly.

As I walked away myself, I suddenly realized that no matter how much pain or anger I go through, there is always someone who has it worse.

I seriously should start to appreciate the life I have.



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