Twenty-five Years

He left from his office at 5pm sharp, like he had been since the past 25 years, knowing he would never step back into that place for the rest of his life. Twenty-five years. He had gotten married. He got widowed. He had children. He got them married. Twenty-five years. He wrote the accounts. He entered them onto the computer. Later, he used the laptop and now his tablet. He never understood the fuss about technology- it was so easy to handle. The only people who were afraid of technology were the ones who were afraid of change-who were rigid and didn’t want to accept new things.

He had an entire lifetime of happiness awaiting him. All his hard work were to bear fruits in the coming days or maybe months or even years! Who knew! Who could predict life? Not even him, who predicted the market, almost accurately all these years. What an asset he had been to his co-workers!

He could finally relax in that beach house he had bought about ten years ago. He could finally live in the resort he owned. He could finally live the life he had been earning for. You should live, you know; not just earn. You don’t even drink or smoke or even splurge on material things, his friends would say. Or enjoy.

He didn’t have to answer them. They wouldn’t understand. They never understood the unpredictability of life. He never regretted doing and more importantly not doing anything in his life. He was happy as it all was. His wife died of cancer. He hoped it could have been him. She never ever got to spend. He never allowed it. So he spent that money on her treatment-he took her to the best of hospitals desperately trying to save her, but to no avail. At least she was happy and she passed way in her sleep, with calm etched over her face.

Twenty-five years. He saw many people come and go. They all ended up as some number in some dusted files in his closet. He would too, he knew, but it didn’t matter. He, now, could live his life.

As he walked away from the gates of his office, he felt a sudden urge to have chai, something his friends had urged him to do since his childhood. He never did it. Now was the time. It was time to live life.

As he went across the street, he felt that drop in his stomach-the one he always got before something really bad would happen. This one was the worst. He stopped to think before he continued. Maybe he’d get food poisoning. He wouldn’t stop there, he decided. He had to live life. He had to take risks and walk the roads not taken. But the feeling continued till he heard a loud honk and saw a truck coming right at him. He stopped hearing when he couldn’t hear, after he saw his own blood, mixed with a blinding light. There was no more time to live life.

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About TheBlackWallflower

I'm just your average unique person. I love to read and write (no surprises there, eh?) and think a lot. I adore Rowling and think Harry Potter should be a religion. I also hate pink. I love fluff generally because it makes me feel intelligent and I love poetry because it makes me feel different. (yes, references.) I'm married to Sirius Black. So I sign myself as The Bitch alarmingly often. Oh, and I love Mr. Darcy. And Jo Longo. And Chandler Bing. And Sherlock. (Yes, I'm a fantard.) And in case you want to drop in a good, or a critical word, feel free to email me: theblackwallflower@gmail.com OR, follow me on Twitter: @WallflowerBlack Enough with the babble. OkBye. View all posts by TheBlackWallflower

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