Walking down the streets of America is not the best way to get to work. I have to walk to the bus stop at 6 in the morning daily. I work at the bank in the middle of town. Unfortunately for me, I live just outside of town and it takes 20 minutes to walk from my house to the bus stop, then half an hour for the bus to arrive at the next station. So that's 50 minutes so far... well Im not done, I have to catch another bus after that and it takes another 20 minutes to get to the stop. 7:10 in the morning. I then have to walk to the bank and pray the traffic is good, otherwise, I'll be sure to be late. I start work at 7:20, that's 5 minutes to walk 3 kilometres and the next 5 minutes spent putting on my suit.
Ugh, weekdays. I left early this morning, I've got a meeting about someone getting more than 7 different credit cards. Dont ask me how that went through the programme without notice.
I'm staring at my deep green eyes in the mirror, trying to figure out when I will finally meet anyone I am attracted to in the least. I mean, I'm 29 years old and not a single little crush. I look at my short brown hair. Silky. Has anyone ever been attracted to me? I'm ordinary, no one can be drawn to this, no muscle. No special qualities. No... mom.
That one strikes a spot with me. I was right there. I could have saved her.
*flashback*
The wind brushes my slightly over grown hair all over my face as I'm riding through the streets on my bike. What a wonderful day it is. The leaves are blowing with the small breeze going through the clouds. The sky is a beautiful light blue, with small soft cushions of white, weird shaped, marshmallows occasionally dotting it. The sun is nice and warm, kissing my skin with its welcomes. The bright green grass is dancing with the wind, in time with the leaves.
Then it hits.
The ground starts to shake violently. I fall off my bike and scrape my knee. As soon as the ground makes contact with my skin, I suck in a deep breath through my teeth in pain. Shaking my self off after the earthquake, I get up and make my way back toward my bike. I get back on and start riding back toward home. There is just one word I think that makes me feel sick. My palms get sweaty and I can feel my face drop. I start to shake and adrenaline starts to pump through my blood...
Mom.
I pedal faster, faster, FASTER! Faster than ever before and I make it home in record time. But only to see my house in a pile of wood. It was never very sturdy. There are wood splinters everywhere. I let out a cry of pain. "Mom!" I wail.
"Eren!? Help! Help me, Eren!" My mother's screams of plea fill the empty air. I hadn't noticed a figure half buried in the pile of debris. My moms usually tidy, black hair was messy and wild. Her usual calm and peaceful deep green eyes, crazy and alarmed. Her left arm was stuck under the house but her head, right arm and top half of her torso was free.
She reached her arm out to me, as if to grab onto me, but I was too far away. "Mom! Mommy! No!" I cried painfully, running towards her at full speed. I grabbed her hand and held on tight. "Mommy, you can't leave me!" I begged, tears streaming down my face. "Mom, please! You're not allowed to go!" It was torture, watching this. "Not after dad left us! No!"
"Help! Get me out of here!" She shrieked. She was obviously terrified.
I pulled on her arm, trying to free her without luck. "EREN!" That was it. I hauled with all of my might. I grunted because of how hard I was pulling.
CRACK!
I stopped at the sound and fell down, eyes wide with fear of losing my mother. The remains of the house tumbled down and crush my mother's body. My mind stopped working.
No.
"Mom!" Agony was lacing my voice as I screamed into the cloud of dust. "Mommy! No! No! No, mom!" My voice got louder and louder. "Mom!!" I curled into a ball and screamed as loud as I could. I screamed until my throat hurt, then I kept screaming. My volume never wavered. I was just a ball of a screaming, crying mess.
Everything started to turn dark. My eyes rolled backwards. I blacked out. But my screaming didn't stop. I don't remember stopping.
*end flashback*
I was 16 years old then. It's been 13 years.
I wipe back a stray tear at the memory. I cut my self over the guilt of her death. My wrists are scarred from the blade that used to run accross them on a weekly basis.
My guilty thoughts are stopped by a man walking into the bathroom.
I feel a strange but faint pull towards this stranger.
Handsome.
Hot.
I think I'm developing a crush.