Blaktokyo #theblaktokyo @blaktokyo #whoistheblaktokyo #thablaktokyo #madamtheblaktokyo @theblaktokyo @madamtheblaktokyo @thablaktokyo @whoistheblaktokyo #ragstoriches
#theblaktokyo #whoistheblaktokyo #thablaktokyo #madamtheblaktokyo @theblaktokyo @madamtheblaktokyo @thablaktokyo @whoistheblaktokyo #ragstoriches
#MadameHeidiFleiss https://theblaktokyo.blogspot.com/ #theblaktokyo #whoistheblaktokyo #thablaktokyo #madametheblaktokyo @madametheblaktokyo #madamtheblaktokyo @theblaktokyo #memoirsoftheblaktokyo @memoirsoftheblaktokyo @madamtheblaktokyo @thablaktokyo @whoistheblaktokyo #ragstoriches @HeidiFleiss #HeidiFleiss
Whenever undertakers show up people always try to avoid contact as if they bring death or something so growing up i thought death has to be a body six feet under, first time meeting death was grandpa's death all I remember is mama crying, aunt on the ground and people all over the place wearing black like ALOT surprisingly they were yapping and acting like its an occasion to catch up like nothing happened ,I was a bit confused why do you show up if you really don't care? two years passes and here we meet again this time with dad got a call at school to go see dad at the hospital same scene all wearing black but this time they were all crying as I entered on dad I saw him but it didn't feel like him he was so cold like he was really soulless fear found me that time i got out of the room got out away all what i could say that i am ok, i went to the only place where i knew i will not have to deal with it to the pool spent there all day from waking up till i go home to bed and with my sister of choice it felt like nothing happened. nationals coming i trained harder than ever as every time I entered the pool I swam as sharks were chasing the faster i go the more silence i had tired body yes but muted mind just a week before my race got chickenpox sitting alone between those 4 walls felt as a mice trapped with a cat that is trying to kill him my mind was merciless blaming me for everything i couldn't sleep for 3 days itching body crazy mind felt like that this my end till my girl stepped in and helped and helped me realize that its ok nothing happened because of me, days passed and as i got better i was offered a job as swimming coach accepted with no hesitation chlorine smell is back in my hair this time I am the mentor ,that was the best time of my life. That friend we started talking less but that's ok that how it have been around us since childhood we both knew as we meet it will be like we never left or at least that's what i thought as she started ignoring me something felt wrong the more i try to approach her she runs new semester started I saw her at school went to talk to her she ignored me again. I really don't know what did I do? I kept texting , calling ,sent her a video of younger us saying how we will be together forever she saw it and then responded with a react after 3 days, that when i knew she is no longer the same person found her at school after that hanging with girls she used to yap how much she disliked them I felt real betrayal how can she even do that to me I trusted her as a family even more she was more than blood to me and I was a part of her family too! that's a betrayal you forgot 15 years? crying laughing everything together and for what I really don't know what happened as time passed I drown myself in work but that wasn't even powerful enough I don't miss her at midnight i missed her in the most crowed places and in my biggest achievements she was missing her spot was empty and she is the only person I really want by my side . As I trained more swimmers there were grandma's who came to train as there grandchildren watched , introducing kids to the water and seeing the hunger in young swimmers there, sprinting with my whistle , they think i am the one who taught them something new but they are the ones who came to me with wisdom every swimmer has a story and a lesson for me to learn specially those adults . I finally reached peace and that I need to let people die stop chasing not only those who are 6 feet under put in by undertakers but also those who breath i realized the girl i knew is dead so I have to grieve it and honor our memories that new girl is some one i don't know anything about as she don't either soka my dog just died months ago she was my last shared memory with dad she went to be there with him and the girl I never imagined she won't be there to get me out or i won't be there in her wedding as we dreamed wasn't there. something I learned too that when someone dies you don't try to bring them back cause they will come as a ghost or a vampire and from we knew from drama they aren't much friendly(except if he was Niklaus Mikaelson of course) people are stages in life god send them to help you through something and then leave ,same thing with you .even if you thought they will stay forever; enjoy the moment while you can and make peace with death it means someone's message is delivered as all I said hurt but it developed my character maybe god took them away cause they won't fit in the next chapter it doesn't matter if they died in a grave or in life make peace with yourself as that's the only one who is not just a chapter its the hero of the story love him so you can make a rememberable character out of him. True death happens when you get forgotten.
'Clear your mind.' What a strange concept. As if I have the ability to throw a switch and all my thoughts can be shut off. Like I should just turn a faucet and the continuous flow of distracting memories will dry up. Precious memories… like those of my unlettered Indian mother who emigrated to South Africa, and managed to raise seven children all on her own, with minimal help from my father. Relived moments of seeing her always busy and hardly ever resting – cooking dishes whose mouth-watering aromas continue to haunt me; frying off samosas and rotis that made the house smell like the best restaurant in the world. Or quickly baking a plain cake which she decorated with a jam spread topped with desiccated coconut. Painful memories of her beloved face saddened by some thoughtless thing I had said in anger; unbidden reminders of her tears flowing unhindered after receiving a few punches from my changed father; moments of grief at recalling her sitting up in bed, unable to sleep because of the unbearable pain brought on by her failing heart. Fearful memories of seeing her lying in the hospital bed, hooked up to a million contraptions, pipes going into her mouth, others snaking out from under the thin blanket covering her aging body after her triple heart bypass operation. Paralyzing thoughts that freeze me once again in that moment when I had visited her in hospital, crying silently at seeing her incapacitated, witnessing this woman who used to be such a tiny dynamo spinning with energy. My heart breaks anew. How can I ‘clear my head' of these, scatter the clutter like unwanted baggage? These thoughts are ingrained within my psyche; they have shaped my perception of life and people. These memories are the scaffolding that bolsters this house that is me. Pain is part of joy; gain is inseparable from loss. I turn on rainbow thoughts, rejoice in the colorful music of memory that spills over me like a deluge. Her generosity, kindness, forgiving nature, selfless attitude, patience, faith… these now remind me of the qualities that had defined her. A snatch of her mischievous laughter tickles my inner ear, brightens my soul like an exploding star. Memory speaks of her positive reaction to life, whispers of how even in her most grueling moments of pain she had not complained. My heart softens at remembering her unstinting love for all of us; constricts at the memory of her stern visage whenever any of us got into trouble. But most of all, my disorderly mind recalls two unforgettable things about my mother. How wonderfully beautiful she had looked whenever she had dressed up for an occasion. How fearlessly she had faced every uncertain day, filled with unabashed faith that all will be well. And it always was, and still is… For her spirit resides within me, within the atmosphere, and within the realm of dreams. Whenever life hurls nearly insurmountable challenges at me, her face swims into my consciousness. When I think I've reached the end of my fragile tether-hold on life, her courage and strength sustain me. If I feel overwhelmed by the world's sorrow, or become despondent because of rejections and life's myriad little disappointments, I envision her offering me the rolled up, hot, very first flaky, delicious roti she had fried. It was filled with sugar and the taste of this simple treat still serves as a healing balm. My mind may be cluttered, but this is one mess I'm not ashamed of. 'Clear your mind,' you say. Why should I do this, when clarity springs from the very disorder of my thoughts.
He opened his closet. It's already like the fridge, although he doesn't like to eat very much last month. What he'll be wearing for today's adventure that was exactly like yesterday's? He's not sure. All skins are worn out. He craves for something new. He decides to take whatever is comfier most. He's read a lot of self-improvement material. Your self-comfort is in the first place. Always. That's what you've been told of. Yes, he likes to never let them know his next move. He moves like oil in the pan. Gently and slippery, always prepared. But for what? Last time he really spoke with himself within was when his father appeared. The father left long time ago, and he left him with a deep hole that won't ever be fulfilled. So he decides to check the closet again. Just like you do with the fridge, I told you. Time's already come, it's 7 p.m. He tried very hard this time: Perfect opening, good follow-up and even sharing some his real personality through very well organized alphabet letter (funny we pay that much for books, as they're just same letters, but organized differently enough). But suddenly he receives “Sry, today I ain't gonna be there”. He knew she found someone better, so he quits Tinder. He opens another better book, so tomorrow he'll be better at it.
"When the world falls silent at night, my mind and I begin to make noise. The night knows me more than people do, for it is the one who sees my face without masks, and the one who hears my thoughts and contradictions without me ever speaking them." Let me take you with me on a short journey inside my cursed mind .. At first, I lie on my bed thinking that I will fall asleep quickly because I'm exhausted and my energy has run out, but the truth is completely the opposite .. At that very moment when I start closing my eyes thinking that I'll soon fall into a deep sleep “or so I imagine”, my mind begins to take me to its world, full of darkness and painful memories. Sometimes I feel it says to me: “Look at those who promised to stay and left, look at those whom you trusted with your heart and they betrayed it, look at me; I'm here suffering every day because of you and your foolish actions.” When everything overflows inside me and I see that no place suits me — not even my bed .. I rise to drown in the moonlight, in its calmness that looks nothing like my noise and inner chaos. I look at it and wonder: Are you really as peaceful as you seem, O moon? Are you truly this calm and still? Don't you have something you're trying to hide behind that calm and quiet mask, just like we humans do? Sometimes I used to feel that the night was my enemy, the thing I feared the most in my life .. but the truth showed the opposite. I discovered that the night is the one who holds me in my weakness, the one who stands beside me when no one else does. The night always understands me without words, the night knows me more than I do, the night resembles me a lot; it seems from the outside very calm, but behind that mask there are so many things hidden deep inside things that only we understand. The night is the best friend, but only for the one who needs it and knows its value. The night is a hidden treasure beneath a quiet black cloak. On one of those silent nights .. my thoughts betrayed me and lit inside me the longing for memories of the past, I remembered then that I still keep some things from that time. I started flipping through this, opening that, until my eyes fell upon two small papers, One carried a confession of jealousy, and the other an admission of attachment that grew day after day. When I read them, I remembered what once was, I remembered a promise of staying, of sacrifice, of fighting wars for me if needed. My eyes overflowed with tears, my heart cried, every inch of my body cried. I realized then that what passes never returns, I realized that I held on to things that were never mine from the beginning, I realized that nothing will stay by my side and comfort me through every hardship — except the night and its moon. Since that night, I realized that the darkness of night is the mirror where I see myself more clearly. I made peace with the night, and it became closer to me than myself. I started waiting for the day to end so I could escape into the night and its stillness. I became the moon that lights my night without needing anyone to keep me company. The night taught me not to run from my pain, but to hold it until it calms. The night .. my closest friend. 🌙
We have been going a long way; Our past was filled with ruthless wars. It was such a horrible journey That silenced innocent babiesʼ' laughter. But now, our world is tranquil; We are to live those half-dreamed lives. Now everything is just, everything is equal— Our goal is just to thrive. Undoubtedly, we have to make amends. You are building good lives for us, Yet we have a plea - hear our laments O keepers of the nations, We donʼt want battles over wealth and lands. Letʼs reunite again, As if there had never been a war. Let holidays begin, As our hearts have never felt sorrow.
“Fool me once, you fool yourself. Fool me twice, and you've made me a fool.” This wise saying, rooted in African cultural philosophy, reflects a painful reality in our contemporary society. It brings to mind the poignant story of a young National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) member posted from southern Nigeria to Jos in the North Central region. Determined not to remain idle, he decided to take up farming. He wasn't looking for charity—he paid for the ground rent and land clearing out of his hard-earned savings. But to his shock, he later discovered it was all a well-orchestrated scam by a local family. What he thought was a productive venture turned into betrayal and exploitation. Unfortunately, this is not an isolated case. It echoes a broader national concern: the erosion of values, the exploitation of good intentions, and the lack of commitment to nation building. A former Inspector General of Police once lamented that Nigeria, with a population of over 230 million, is policed by only about 450,000 personnel. Alarmingly, over 250,000 of those officers are assigned to VIPs and politicians. That leaves the majority of citizens vulnerable. So, one might ask—are we truly interested in national growth, or are we simply rehearsing the motions of progress without substance? The rot goes even deeper. Consider the disturbing trend among some NGOs in Abuja who feed off the hard work of grassroots organizations in other states. These urban-based groups claim credit before donors, receiving recognition and funding meant for those truly doing the work. This betrayal of effort and integrity is another example of the systemic dysfunction that hampers genuine progress. These interlinked acts of injustice have, over time, distorted our societal values. We now live in a society where some people value animals' more than human lives. Our cultural diversity should not be a hindrance to empathy. Humanity must always come first. If we continue to close our eyes and ears to today's evil, we may wake up tomorrow trapped in the consequences of our silence. Take the story of an elder statesman who refused to caution a fellow politician about neglecting the people's welfare. He dismissed it as none of his business—until tragedy struck. His grandchild fell into a well while trying to fetch water. The news caused his wife such distress that she suffered a hypertensive crisis. Due to poor healthcare and bad roads, she couldn't be saved. In a short period, he lost two loved ones. Only then did he realize that the evil men do doesn't just live after them—it often lives with them. So the question remains: what values are we embracing as a people? Are they driven by conscience, or by material gains and fleeting accolades? What legacy will we leave behind? What impact are we making in our communities? We often say Rome wasn't built in a day. But as we talk about building a better Nigeria, what role are we playing? Are we supplying the blocks, the sand, the water—or the blueprint? Or are we merely sitting on the fence, waiting to criticize or hoping for disaster if things don't go our way? Nation building is not the job of a select few. It is a shared responsibility. Once upon a time, people proudly traveled abroad to give birth so their children could claim citizenship of more developed nations. But those societies were not miracles—they were built by people who believed in progress, who were guided by values, and who sacrificed for the future. Let us be guided too—not by greed or selfish ambition, but by a true desire to see our nation thrive, even in the face of hardship. The call today is clear: we must return to values that prioritize integrity, responsibility, and collective growth. Only then can we hope to rewrite our story—and give the next generation a country worth calling home.
Hospitals are strange places. They hold both joy and sorrow, beginnings and endings, first breaths and last. As a pediatrician, I have witnessed moments that tested my faith and hope. Yet one story remains—a fragile cry that reminded me of the miracle of life. It was an ordinary morning in the maternity ward. The corridors smelled of antiseptic, and newborn cries echoed. But a case arrived none of us would forget. A young mother, pale and trembling, was in preterm labor. Her baby was coming weeks too soon: fragile lungs, fragile heart, fragile chances. The room grew tense. Nurses prepared quickly, the incubator hummed, and my heart pounded. Experience never removes the weight of such moments. And then, he came. A tiny boy, so small it seemed the world could crush him. His skin was translucent, his chest uneven. For a moment, silence. Too silent. His mother whispered, “Is my baby alive?” We rushed into action. His breaths were shallow, flickering like a candle. For an instant, I feared he would not survive. Inside, I prayed: Please breathe. Please cry. Then it came—a soft, raspy cry. Not loud, but enough to bring tears to our eyes. That cry was hope made audible. His mother sobbed with relief. We placed him in the incubator, wires and tubes surrounding him. Beyond machines, there was something greater: the astonishing design of the human body. His lungs struggled but learned. His heart kept beating. Every cell seemed to whisper, I want to live. Days turned into weeks. I visited often, listening to the monitors, watching his tiny fingers curl. His mother stood by, whispering lullabies through the glass. Slowly, he grew stronger. Weeks later, I entered the ward and froze. The incubator was empty. He was in his mother's arms, no tubes, no wires, only life. His wide eyes and faint smile were victory itself. Months later, I almost didn't recognize him. The fragile infant was now a chubby, bright-eyed baby, cooing and grasping at his mother's necklace. His laughter filled the room. I remembered that first cry—how close we came to losing him, and how miraculous his life now was. That day, I was reminded how extraordinary human beings are. We often take life for granted—the beating of a heart, the instinct of a newborn curling its fingers. But when life nearly slips away, every detail shines like a miracle. Every child born healthy is not “ordinary.” It is a wonder, repeated millions of times yet never losing its beauty. A premature baby growing into a thriving child shows how humans are created with resilience and grace. I often think of that boy. When I see children running in the park, laughing freely, I think of him and others like him. I think of mothers waiting anxiously, fathers hiding tears, grandparents praying in hospital corridors. Each child is a living testament to creation's brilliance. The world may be full of noise—wars, fears, uncertainty. But then there is the quiet cry of a newborn, reminding us that life continues, that miracles happen every day. That fragile cry taught me more than textbooks. It taught me that humans are wonderfully made, and that every child carries a spark of divine perfection. And that is why I continue my work. Not just to heal, but to witness life's miracle again and again. Because every cry matters, every breath counts, and every child is proof that even in a fragile world, hope endures
I had to admit something. That my world, somewhere along the line, had lost its color. It wasn't a sudden thing. More like a slow fade, the kind you don't notice until you wake up one day and realize you're living in a black-and-white movie from the 1940s. My apartment, 4B, was the entire set of that movie. The window looked out onto a city that was just… gray. Gray buildings, gray sidewalks, gray cars filled with gray people. The sounds were gray, too. A dull, constant hum that was the background track of my life, which mostly consisted of coding for a company that probably thought I was a bot, and getting everything from groceries to toothpaste delivered to my door. The door was the edge of my world. Then came the knock. It wasn't the usual tap-and-run of a delivery. This was a frantic, messy rhythm. A 'human' knock. My heart did a kickflip against my ribs. I tried to ignore the sound. But It came again, louder this time, punctuated by a shaky voice. "Hello? Please? Anyone's here?" I cracked the door, my body hidden behind it, leaving a gap just wide enough for one of my eyes. It was Mrs. Henderson from 4A, a woman I'd only ever seen as a blur of floral print and white hairs. Now, her face was crumpled with panic, her eyes wide and wet, looking pitiful. "It's Jasper," she said, her voice thin and choked. "My cat. He must have slipped out. I can't find him anywhere." My brain, my very logical and anxious brain, had a simple response: 'Not your problem. Close the door.' But Mrs. Henderson had come even at my almost always closed door for her cat. And now her wrinkled eyes were looking at me. And her panic, it was so… colorful. Yes. A vibrant, terrifying red in my muted gray world. "I'll… keep an eye out," I mumbled, which was a lie ofcourse as my logical brain had won. "Could you just help me check the stairwell?" she pleaded. "My knees aren't what they used to be, dear." The stairwell. The concrete monster in which I hadn't set foot for six months. 'No, I can't do that.' I thought. But the look on her face….was really something. I don't know why I did it. Maybe it was her panic. Or maybe I was just tired of the gray. I nodded. The hallway felt like a mile-long tunnel. Every creak of the floorboards was a cannon blast. But Mrs. Henderson was there, shuffling beside me, her face filled with worry was somehow affecting me. We checked the stairwell. Top to bottom. No Jasper. I felt a genuine pang of disappointment. And something else, too. A weird, shaky sense of pride. I had left my apartment. I had faced my monster. Back in 4B, the gray seemed… less gray. But I still couldn't settle. I kept picturing that little ginger cat, lost and scared. Then I found myself at the window, but I wasn't just staring at the city. I was scanning. Searching for a tiny patch of orange. Mrs. Henderson had mentioned he loved sunning himself by the big green dumpster in the alley. The alley. That meant the lobby. The main entrance. 'Outside'. My hands started to tremble. It was one thing to face the stairwell with a guide. It was another to walk out into the whole world. Alone. But the image of Mrs. Henderson's face wouldn't leave me. So, I put on my shoes. The journey to the front door was an epic saga. My heart hammered out a frantic drum solo. But I did it. I pushed the heavy glass door open. And the sound hit me. It wasn't the gray hum I had expected. It was… everything. A car horn blared, sharp and yellow. A kid shrieked with laughter, a splash of pink. A bus hissed its brakes, a deep, rumbling blue. I'd forgotten the world had so many different noises. And there, behind the dumpster, was a flash of orange. Jasper. He was tangled in some old kite string, looking very sorry for himself. Carrying him back, I felt like a soldier returning after victory. Mrs. Henderson's sob of relief when she saw him was the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard. She hugged me, a real, solid hug that smelled like cinnamon and tea. It was the first time someone had touched me in almost a year. "You have to come in," she insisted. "I've just made tea." The old me, the gray me, would have made an excuse. But the me standing in the colorful, noisy hallway, with cat hair on his shirt? She said yes. Sitting in her cluttered, cozy apartment, with a purring cat on my lap and a warm mug in my hands, I looked out her window. It was the same view as mine. But from here, the city wasn't gray at all. It was a thousand different colors, all shimmering under the afternoon sun. I knew my apartment was still there, waiting for me. But for the first time in a long while, I truly felt at home.
My sister, my grandma, and I spent our holidays in the village, like a little world of our own. Mornings were filled with sunlight on the fields, the smell of baking bread, and the gentle hum of our conversations. Everything felt simple, calm, and safe, until my uncle arrived. He was not harsh to me or my sister, but when he spoke, it was with sharp authority. If we did not do as he said, his anger flared. and my grandmother... she would shrink to herself, quiet and tense, as if trying not to breath too loudly. The happiness of our little world trembled the moment, he stopped through the door. My sister and I hugged him as though we had missed him, but the truth was different. Having known him for years, we had become good at pretending -and that was what I hated most. Pretending felt like a mask I couldn't take off. I smiled and laughed, because if he grew angry, his harsh words would almost always fall on my grandmother. Sometimes I wished I could run away, take a long walks , and spend less time inside the house. But I could never leave her alone. I did not know, what might have happened, if they argued again, and the thought of my grandmother's heart breaking under her son's words kept me by her side. The days in the village would pass slowly, almost painfully. I tried to avoid him in the large house, but somehow, he was everywhere: working in the garden, preparing two plates of food only for himself, or sitting with his friends who were just like him. Each corner of the house seemed to carry his presence. Being there no longer felt like living. It was only existing, waiting for more time to move forward, waiting for the silence to end. At night, when he was drunk, he would come to us, and begin long lectures about life. My sister and I would sit there, listening, smiling, nodding our heads at the right times, waiting for it to be over. Sometimes it lasted for hours. When he finally left, I would glance at my grandmother. She sat quietly, her face -unreadable, but her eyes told the story, her lips never did. In them, I saw exhaustion, sorrow, and something deeper: something unspoken that I could never forget. My uncle was not always this way. As a child, he had been kind, gentle, even a joy to be around. But when he grew older and fell in with wrong friends, something changed. He became sharper, harsher, almost unrecognizable. He began mocking his own mother, blaming her for every smallest disappointment and failure in his life. Every harsh word, he threw at her, left wounds that I could not see, but knew were deeper than any physical pain. My grandmother never answered back, but her silence carried the weight of it all. Not all words are spoken out loud. Some stay hidden in the pauses between sentences. Growing up, I learned to listen to those unspoken words. They taught me more than the loudest voices ever could, and they continue to remind me that kindness matters most, especially when silence is the only language, someone has left.
24 of September 2021, I remember that day clearly; it was a Friday. I can't forget waking up early: the sunny day, birds' voices in the morning, me complaining to my parents not to make me go and buy bread. Wearing my yellow slippers before going to the masjid besides my house for the prayer. But I don't know, I was just a kid; I didn't pay much attention to the speech that was always given. But I remember that exact speech was about suicide. I can't figure out to this day why I paid attention to that one instead of looking at the floor, lost in my thoughts. But I remember that I had that weird feeling while listening to it…...Fear? Maybe. After the prayer, I went back home. No, I hurried there. I still can't figure out to this day why I did that, but when I got there, I went to look out of the window. I remember seeing everyone walking. Dads with their sons from the masjid, friends, kids just minding their businesses. But I saw them. Two kids from a nearby flat just fell from the window. I remember I froze in place; I couldn't even call anyone. I just froze, watching the whole thing happen Infront of my eyes, seeing people. Seeing them rushing, but they were late. I thought that was it. My mom was looking from another window; I saw her tears. But I didn't know why. We never talked to them. We aren't even related to them. Then I saw something that changed my life. The mom of the two kids looked down from the window, seeing her children down there, no signs of life on them. She disappeared inside, then came back few minutes later to stand at the edge of the window. I remember everything slowed down. I was looking at my mom screaming and tearing, my dad covering my little brother's eyes while running towards our home, not wanting him to see what was going to happen. But I saw it. I remember how slowly she jumped, how quiet it was, how the screams begging her not to do it just stopped. I heard the scariest sound of my life: the thud of her body hitting the ground. I don't know why I kept watching, but I did it anyway. I felt many things at once: disgust, shame, pure horror, embarrassment. I never looked at people the same after it, I felt shame and embarrassment every time I walked when I remember that I could have gone down and grabbed a piece of cloth or something to save the mother. But at the same time, I was scared; I didn't know what to do; I was just frozen in my place. I felt disgusted at the 20+ people below her window, not even trying to help her with anything, only moving away when she jumped. But I kept watching it all happen, I realized she went back those few minutes…. I think she was wishing that all this was fake, that the two kids lying on the floor dead weren't hers. But it was too late. She is gone beside both her kids, and no one even tried any bit of help; nothing but begging and screaming. It hunted me through the years how I look at people now, how I started to think people will not be helpful in serious situations while I was 13, how every time I go down to buy some stuff I just look there at the place they died, I remember the sand that was put to cover the blood. Now I am 17, and I still can remember clearly the full accident when I look through that exact window at my house; I just remember the exact thing that happened, and I can't help it. I can't stop it. I keep saying I had nothing to do with it, but it felt like a reborn for me, I became quieter; my view has changed about many things, mostly people. Maybe I saw it, and it is going to make me stronger someday. But sometimes I wish I just slept late that night and woken up late that day.
