Suppose the accident didn't happen. Suppose we were less immersed into things we were doing and more focused on the things the others were about to do. It took only a second, a blink of an eye, for a scream to penetrate the stale calmness of an ordinary evening and set everybody in motion.
It did happen; accidents happen when no one expects them, this is why they are accidents, I guess. Commotion and shouts in the room are fighting for the primacy with the sounds of the howling wind and things falling and clattering from the outside. Suddenly everyone and everything wants your attention. Suddenly nothing was important except for this brief moment in time when you have to ACT in order to prevent more grave things to happen, to stop consequences from taking their course and reach the point beyond the conclusion: The damage is irreparable. Once you step over the threshold, the door closes and not even the howling wind and drums of rain of the building storm can open it again.
Once bygones, always bygones.
Life sucks, doesn't it?
Sure it does, don't lie to me about it!
Monsters of the night are screaming behind my windows, thudding and banging for my attention as I am trying to make love with the sleep, craving to be embraced in its comforting promise of things to be undone and the history reversed to before it happened. I crack-open the balcony door, securing it from being shattered into pieces of the broken glass in case the wind wishes to grab its handle and tries to force itself on my slumber. Nothing happens, though. At least nothing I perceive. A barely traceable kiss of the fresh air softly lands on my exposed neck, arms and bare chest as I surrender myself into the winning pull of a sleep, aware of the blinking dim dot of consciousness that the morning will be the time and place to deal with the consequences. To tackle the issue. If what did happen decided to leave the scars of the accident of the event that only in my regretful mind supposedly didn't happen.
I'll try, but I know that sleeping the morning away won't make any difference. What is bound to happen is already being fed with the thick squish of the pouring rain.
If only this water turned into tears of remedy that would make my dad's eye heal. My mom would be granted forgiveness, and one ordinary, boring and uneventful night would be written off in the forgetfulness of time.
If only it didn't happen when it happened.