Blood on the Concrete

Blood on the Concrete

I have a story. It's not much of a very long story--but it is to my immortal eyes. It consists of a girl with fiery hair, a mother, a few friends, a man, and blood forever staining the concrete...

Four children were at a playground. There was a girl with red hair and three boys with wild dreams. The girl's mother was there, and so was I--invisible to their eyes. But there nonetheless.
The first boy's name was Patrick and he wanted with every boot of his soul to be a doctor when he grew up. He had wanted this ever since his mother's life had been saved by that man in white who had removed the "monster" in her chest.
Dave, the next boy, just wanted to make his father proud. His dream? To join the Army and thus be able to do what his father had been unable to. He felt in his heart that it would make his father proud.
The third and final boy was Tom. Tom was the weakest of the group. He didn't really have "friends"--most of the other children kicked him around and laughed at him. They saga aid he was gay--but he wasn't, he was simply different from his peers.
Then there was Sarah. Sweet, young, innocent Sarah. I was Sarah's Guardian Angel. I had been with her through it all: first words, first steps, first day of school. I was even there when her first goldfish died. If you can name it, I was there. Sarah had hair that resembled the setting sun, but I was always reminded of a dancing inferno. She knew that I existed, of course. But, I don't know how it was possible, but Sarah could see me. Sarah was the only human ego has ever seen me as I truly am. She was different. She had such great potential to mingle with her unheard of ability; and she would have made it so far in life--had she lived past that day.
Sarah had a dream, too, just like her friends. She just wanted to get to know her father, who had left her and her mother when she had been born and had why had taken her mother's wedding ring. It was such a simple, innocent dream of one who was too young to yet understand the ways of the human world. And I had been so sure that she would have seen it to the o the end. But no one knows the Almighty's plans--not even his angels.

The night before, a man had arrived home to find a note written in shake but all-too-familiar handwriting:
I'm sorry but I can't find a way to live this life.
I cannot explain to you the emotions that whipped violently around in this man as he tore through his house, searching for his wife and praying that he was not too late.
Unfortunately, he found her hanging dead in the bedroom.
He had dropped to his knees, screaming silently art God: How am I supposed to go on now?
He hit the bottles after that, one right after the other. Humans refer to it as "binge-drinking". He used straight and heavy liquor.
The following morning, just as the children were leaving the playground, he was tearing down the street in his car. He was still trapped in his drunken stupor and currently working on another bottle of whiskey. More bottles scattered the car.
The children, as I said, were just leaving the playground. They were in high spirits--Sarah's mother had promised lemonade. They were flitting ha happily down the sidewalk. Sarah's laughter could be heard as she raced the wind, her red hair streaming out behind her.
Her mother called out for her to stop at the upcoming corner, but her voice was carried off by the wind and never reached Sarah's ears.
She didn't stop. The seven-year-old girl reached the corner and, determined to be home before everyone else, stepped away from the safety of the sidewalk without so much as a glance in any other direction other than dead ahead.
It was an instant and yet a lifetime--it's burned into my mind forever.
I can still see the man's car and hear the horrendous squealing of those tires as he tried to stop.
I can still see the fear and terror upon Sarah's face and hear the scream that ripped itself from her throat before it was abruptly silenced.
I knew she was dead before she hit the ground.
Her mother's screaming was that of one who was being forced to endure the most horrible form of torture and was unable to die.
The woman was screaming as she practically threw herself to where her daughter laid and searched vainly for a hearbeat.
Empty bottles and broken dreams, life never goes as you plan it to be.
It happened fast.
A second's crash.
A life story written in blood on the concrete.

Based of three song "Blood on the Concrete" by The Glass Child