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Their blue car stayed within the white lines as the woman watched the road around her, her baby boy sleeping in the back seat looked peaceful. Headed back from the little boys grandmothers house at that early two o’clock.
The red car swerved to the left as the driver tried to find his house; he had a few too many to drink at his friends house. The red light seamed as bright as a shadow so he continued flooring his tires.
The glass shattered around them as the two cars collided. The drunk driver was immediately killed along with the woman in the other car; the baby boy’s crying could be heard as police and ambulances crowded the streets.
The police called the number listed as ICE in the woman’s phone and informed the man that the woman was in a horrible car accident and was dead. The man on the phone with the police went into shock and suffered a heart attack; dying. The cancer he had seemed to be getting better but the call had put his heart into overdrive.
The parents of the sixteen year old in the red car were called next, devastated. They expected more from him.
He was wasted.
Years later, the little boy in the car was now seven. He didn’t understand what had happened but, his adoptive parents never told him. So he sat alone with his baseball bat in his hand and watched the other boys and girls play with their parents. His adoptive parents had never played alongside him, they were involved in work.
The boy is now eighteen, focused solely on his schoolwork just like his parents taught him. He had his things packed and ready to go onto college. He never truly succeeded but they got him into the same college as they went to and were proud that he would one day take over their business. His parents didn’t wave goodbye like expected, they were away at work. A note on the door read: Good luck son.
After years of working, he lays down next to his wife who had just put down the kids. He had been hoping for the perfect life but never got what he asked for but, he ended up in a low pay job. His wife hardly saw him from the long hours he worked and he had no time or energy to play with his kids.
He thinks that alcohol will wash away his problems so he downs another bottle of whiskey. The stench from his breath scared away his children when he wobbled into his apartment. The bottle slid out of his hand and crashed on the floor and he joined the shards of glass. Little scars from the glass gave him déjà vu.
The glass shards flew as the little red car collided with his mothers. A few pieces cut his smooth skin and the crying sounded through the streets.
His kids stayed in the corner and wailed for their mother who came running into the room. She grabbed the children’s hands and dragged them out the door; sick of his act she drove them to their grandmother’s house. He stayed on the floor; wasted.
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You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should've behaved better. -Anne Lamott, from Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life.
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"The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams." -Eleanor Roosevelt
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