Here I thought I was born in life with a happy ending. It's how it all started after all. I was born in a somewhat wealthy and loving family. I had friends that cared for me and actually gave me attention but who knew just some accidents would take away everything I cared for?
"That is what you desired isn't it?" The demon in a black suit pointed his finger in my heart. "Deep in your heart, it's what you want. Yet you let the seeds of doubt sprout there. Why is that exactly?" He grinned maliciously.
"But.. but.. I.. didn't know that I would be taking her whole life! Her family, her friends, even her husband? It's essentially like killing her!" I scratched my head from the frustration and guilt at what I had just done.
"You know that's what you wanted. You told me that you wanted to live longer and get back at those who tormented you right? I gave you a way to do that. Why are still complaining, are you not thankful for what I had just given you?" The demon questioned me with his raspy and deep voice.
I remained silent, not speaking a word about what had just happened. Is this really what I should do?
It was your run-of-the-mill Saturday afternoon, and I was walking home from my grandmother's place when a loud thud sent me to the ground face-first. The pain was comparable to that of being thrown a book at your face—a far cry from how I have always assumed it to hurt when you get hit by a moving vehicle. I thought nothing of it. It was the mere idea of getting caught in an accident that concerned me more.
Silence filled the air after my momentary fall, strangely enough for a rather controversial experience. Far be it for me to expect a crowd to form around me, but I sure have anticipated at least the driver himself to come to my aid. So I turned to catch a glimpse of him. Impatience was painted across the face of this middle-aged man as if he had a cargo to drop off. No trace of guilt, much to my bewilderment. We held that silence for a solid period until I came to my senses. Despite my discomfort, I picked myself up and blurted, "Sorry."
The driver of the rust-covered tricycle sped off with complete disregard for me. I felt my heart sink.
As I limped my way across the street, I exchanged gazes with those who had witnessed the embarrassment through which I had gone. Shame instantly countered the state of shock in which I was settled; so I picked up my pace, eager to escape the scene. My gait was of no help for the blaring scabs that draped my flesh, neither was the sweltering heat. But no degree of physical pain, so to speak, could amount to the guilt I had endured for not having said more in my defense.
Speaking up does not come easy to me, more so when I was younger. In fact, up until middle school, people labeled me as the 'autopilot' kid. That was on account of my submissive behavior. Almost anything people ask of me, I nod in agreement. I did not dare to refuse anyone's request. I was used to giving people the upper hand, so it was typical of me to not have done anything after the hit-and-run incident. And apologizing, I suppose, has become a reflex over the years. This stems from not wanting to stir conflict with anyone. A people pleaser, as some would call me.
My inability to convey my thoughts aloud robbed me of many things, especially a just treatment from other people. For the bulk of my existence, I was lenient towards such oppression. I brought it upon myself anyway—or at least that was my rationale. But it takes a great deal of effort to grow out of such fear. Not having a voice of my own was a secondary result of a more profound event in my life. It was not a conscious choice.
After the accident, I spent my days pondering about what I could have done differently. I tapped into different versions of the scenario. It could have immobilized me, had things panned out worse. It could have killed me, had a bigger vehicle been involved. And yet, would I still have done the same? Would I still have apologized on the driver's behalf? Would I still tolerate such lack of accountability? This pattern of thoughts continued for months, eating away at me.
Ultimately, the nagging guilt evolved into a longing for change. I began to take measures in developing courage to take space in this world. It was also that realization that prompted my passion for debates concerning current and historical events. My voice then grew all the more meaningful, as I was not only representing myself, but also those who lacked the ability to do so themselves. Instead of shying away from issues that need to be addressed, I decided to come face to face with them. Suddenly, I felt as if I could conquer everything.