User blog comment:Eeneend/8: A Story I Wrote/@comment-1271066-20100123144815

I shortened it, this is the result:

The Roundabout Accident

I remember the event as if it happened just minutes ago. It took place at a nice-seeming roundabout in mid-July. I just received my drivers-licence. I bought a car; an old, damaged car, with the money I hardly earned with my job at the shopping mall. Just for fun, I drove my car around the roundabout a few times, I should never have done that, and suddenly, out of the nothing he shouldn’t have come out of, a biker appeared. I barely touched his bike, still, he dropped down, his bike, of course, was entirely fallen apart. He just lay on the ground, I never figured out if he acted like he was unconscious, or actually was. However, he sued me, I, somehow, lost. It cost me my car, my parent’s love, my social life, and my drivers-licence. I felt guilty for him; after all, I did something, no matter how innocent it might sound.

A few days after the lawsuit, my victim decided to pay a visit at my cheap, near-rotten student’s home. I first attempted to hide and pretend he wasn’t there, but in fear and out of mercy, I stood up from the floor I was hiding on, and walked near the door. As my hand touched the latch, and unlocked the door, it was rudely pushed open from the other side, as if good manners were no more. He walked into my room, turned around, pointed his finger at me and asked: ‘Who are you?’ ‘I’m Mike,’ I simply replied. ‘I didn’t ask for your name, I asked who you are, that’s something entirely else. Your name says nothing but your name, and I didn’t ask for that’ he said, as if I was nearly dumb. I didn’t want him to have any opportunity to pretend he was smarter than I was, so I continued, ‘I am a nineteen year old student. I study philosophy, my hobbies are reading, writing, and constructive art. Now I would like to know who you are, and your name, please.’ ‘My name is simple, it’s Richard, you will find out the rest later.’ I remained silent. He stayed the whole afternoon, talking about things I didn’t want to hear, with me begging that he would go away.

Months passed. He often visited, chasing off most of my former friends, and bringing down my study. He often spoke in riddles, and laughed at me when I tried to figure out what he was saying. I was often right, something he kept denying.

Once, on a Saturday, I went to work, in the shopping mall, as usual. I saw him standing in front of the dustbin, he waved, out of habit, I waved back. He just stood there, looking at me doing my job. After the store closed, I walked outside. ‘How are you?’ He asked. ‘Great,’ I replied, being sarcastic. ‘How are you?’ ‘I feel like a hare running in pursuit of an ice cream lately,’ he answered. ‘Think about that.’ ‘I would say you feel like you’re after something, something nice, but the longer you’re running, the smaller it gets,’ I replied. ‘Nice answer,’ he said. ‘What are you pursuing?’ I asked. He remained silent for a few moments, ‘Your friendship,’ he answered. After he said that, he walked away, leaving me behind.

It took me days to understand what he was doing, and who he was. He wanted me to be his friend, but he also ruined me. I still felt guilty about the accident, but that thought was slowly overshadowed by the hatred towards the lawsuit and its impact, which was, of course, caused by him, wasn’t it? It apparently also took him some time to figure out what to do. His next visit took place nearly two weeks later. I noticed him sitting in the park as I walked home, just after I did my job, as usual. He stood up from the bench he sat on and walked along with me; I gently greeted him, without any trace of sarcasm. Spontaneously, he asked: ‘Shall we go to my home?’ I must have seemed calm on the outside, but in fact, I was panicking. ‘Maybe,’ I answered, ‘I actually wanted to go home, and relax.’ ‘It’s only a few streets away from where we stand,’ he told me. I forgot what his exact words were, but he somehow talked my feet over his threshold.

His living room was a total chaos; it reminded me of a dump. ‘Welcome to my apartment.’ I sat down on his couch, trying to avoid crushing his property. After we talked for a while, he stood up and walked to the kitchen, from the sound I heard, I could tell that he was looking for something. After a few minutes, he came back to the living room. In his hand, he held a small, crumpled envelope, he gave it to me. ‘Be careful with it, its content is very valuable, in your eyes at least. Don’t open it before you’re home’ he emphasized. I stood up from the worn out couch, and walked to the door, as I opened it, he said: ‘Thank you.’ Not being aware of the thorough meaning of this words I simply replied: ‘You’re welcome.’

After I reached my home, I quickly opened the envelope and spread its contents out on the coffee table. In front of me lay a few thousand pounds; astonished as I was, it cost me over forty-five minutes to come to the conclusion that it was indeed a lot of money.

Only a few days after my visit, he committed suicide. It stunned me. He was my friend, I can’t deny that. His mother blamed me; every member of his family blamed me. They didn’t invite me on his funeral, something I couldn’t care about. I still walked in. I felt good. I knew my conscience was entirely clean, and that’s what matters.

Jan Wester G2B