You Stop at the Crossroad
I was crossing the road. As usual, the guy didn’t stop. I had to. But today was not a good day.
I was wearing my Dr. Martens. So I just kicked the door of his fucking car. I didn’t feel any shame. I didn’t feel bad of anything. I just kept moving my way.
The guy stopped the car and started shouting. I was at the end of the crossroad. I turned and faced him. I had no feelings. Neither good, nor bad. I was just so sure of myself.
The guy came to me, shouting, spreading his saliva all around. I asked him whether he knew how to drive a car. I affirmed he was a dickhead.
He threw a punch. For whatever reason, time slowed down. I grabbed his punch with my left hand, and his neck with the right.
And I threw him on the ground as strongly as I could.
I heard his skull crack.
He started screaming and crying.
I took him by the neck and, sliding him on the ground, brought him back to his car. I threw him inside, and told him to learn how to drive. I closed the door.
I wasn’t shaking. I wasn’t stressed, or excited. I had no feelings. I just felt that I did the right thing.
I turned around. Lots of people. Staring. Taking pictures, maybe videos. I stared back. I just felt I did the right thing.
Then I walked my way.
I didn’t feel happy, or sad, or excited, or strong. I just felt right.
And the incident was forever forgotten.