Why do I screw everything up?

Other people complain about not getting the chance to prove themselves, while I sit here bombarded by opportunities others open for me. I wish I could give these opportunities away; they would be put to greater use.

Other people have a hard time finding people who they could merely get along with, while I sit here and find all the right people to talk to, whether they like it or not. I wish I could point these people out to those who need them; they would be much happier.

Other people don't always end up screwing things up as badly as me. I mean, sure there are rows, and arguments, and rows and arguments, but there are no tragic ruptures that leave you more empty than before. Not as tragic and as often as mine, for sure.

It's weird how in one moment everything could change. How in one moment you could become a memory. How in one moment you could end it all. How in one moment you could just stop everything around you.

Just one moment.

I tossed in my bed, unable to capture the fleeing sleep. It seemed as if my thoughts were mingling with my sleep. Mingling and dancing, mocking me; not allowing me to be at peace, not even for a couple of hours.

The fact that people have it worse than me whipped my mind back into place. There were people who didn't have food, who didn't have have water. There were people who'd lost their entire family. There were people who didn't have anything.

But what astounded me was that these were the people who would give the most. Even with the scarce items they had for themselves, they would make sure that you would get a share too.

My mind flashed back to the day I'd sat on the corner of Thompson street, a few feet away from a black lady in her mid-thirties, who cradled a baby in a bundle of cloths while keeping a hand protectively over a sleeping toddler of hers.

I don't mean to be racist by calling her black, it's just how she was. But by the looks of it, she had been encountered by a racist person for sure.

Under the dark polluted sky and dim street lamps, I could see her arms were blotted with maroon bruises like the settling sky, a result of direct injury of some sorts.

Her eyes sunk deep into her face, the wrinkles around them quite prominent.

All she asked for was some spare change, or food, or anything. But rarely anybody on the busy street spared her a glance, let alone give her anything.

I remembered hugging myself in order to keep the warmth in my body circulating to no avail.

At around eleven o'clock, she stood up. Her baby was wrapped around her back, a cloth acting as a carrier, while she held the toddler by her side. In her right hand she held a plastic bag.

I thought she was going to leave, but instead she came towards me. She leaned down, set her now awake son beside me and pulled something out of the bag. Though my memory is hazy, I clearly remember how her wrinkly fingers opened my cold clenched hands and placed a loaf of bread on my palm.

"You eat this, girl." Her accent was thick, reminding me of a hot sun and torrents of sand. "You no give to nobody else."

"Th-thanks." I said, completely awestruck.

She hugged me and placed a hand on my head. "May He guide you the rest of your way."

She closed her plastic bag with a couple of knots and stood up straight, taking her child back into her arms.

"Wait!" I scrambled to my feet while shoving the food into my pocket. I held her arms, inspecting them. "Wh-who did this to you?"

"A hombre blanco I hope you never meet, child." She looked at me, anger flaring up in her eyes. "You take care, girl. Don't let anyone touch you."

I nodded and let go of her, still moved by her generosity.

That loaf of bread had kept me going for two days after I'd met the woman; it'd kept me going until they found me.

Until I ended up here.

Until you met me.

Until it happened.

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Author's Note :
Hey,
I'm Del and this is my new story. Hope you guys enjoy ♡

Copyrighted to Del.