I was poor right from the start.
Even though we had nothing much, my father always tried his best to make sure we never felt poor. He worked tirelessly, hiding every worry behind a smile.
It had been three months since the accident with my friend, the one that left scars deeper than anyone could see. I was finally starting to recover, believing that maybe, just maybe, life was returning to normal.
But fate… that damned fate had something else waiting for me.
My parents were my entire world and my reason to live. If anything were to happen to them, I don't think I could survive it.
It was a warm afternoon. The entire society had gathered to clean the building in preparation for a coming festival. Buckets clattered, laughter echoed faintly between the corridors, and I helped my mother by carrying water back and forth.
Everything seemed peaceful. Too peaceful.
Then it hit me, that same uneasy feeling I'd felt on the day of my friend's accident. My heartbeat grew heavy, faster, louder. Without even realizing it, I dropped the bucket and ran toward my mother. I didn't know why. I just knew something was wrong.
My mother was washing the floor near one of the houses when I saw it, a large grinding stone, about 200 kilograms, propped against the wall. And beside it, the old grandma who lived there. Everyone knew she wasn't in her right mind… yet my mother still went near to help clean that area.
And then, in one horrifying instant, the grandma pulled at the stone.
"Mother, run!" I shouted instinctively.
That was my mistake.
If only I hadn't screamed… If only she hadn't turned-
The stone collapsed forward. A thunderous crash followed. The ground shook beneath my feet, and for a second, everything went silent. Then I saw it … blood.
The entire corridor turned red. My mother's feet were crushed under the weight. The water that was supposed to cleanse the building now carried trails of blood, flowing from the fourth floor all the way down to the ground.
That sight… I'll never forget it.
The neighbors panicked. My father rushed out, shouting, calling for help, for an ambulance, for anything. When we reached the hospital, the doctors' words stabbed deeper than any knife
"We need AB-negative blood within fifteen minutes… or we can't save her."
Fifteen minutes. I stood frozen, useless, choking on my tears as my father ran from one blood bank to another. I could only whisper through my sobs:
"Why did I have to yell… why…? I should have stayed quiet… this is all my fault…Why does it always have to be me?"
That voice kept repeating inside my head, a constant scream buried behind my teeth.
By some miracle, my father managed to find the blood in time. The surgery succeeded. My mother survived… but the scars on her legs never faded.
Neither did mine.
That day changed me. I stopped laughing. I stopped trusting people. I stopped believing that life could ever be peaceful again.
I lost my smile that day and with it, the last bit of warmth in my heart.