Trigger warning: This post may raise issues for readers who have experience with depression or suicide.
By JOSEFA PETE
Driving home. Late in the afternoon. Tired from a day’s work. Staring ahead into the peak hour traffic, barely moving forward. Mindlessly thinking about dinner and seeing my boys.
Then, I saw her.
Dishevelled blonde hair. Pyjamas on. Green polka dot bathrobe catching the breeze. She was walking. In the middle of the road. Against the traffic.
I was filled instantly with dread.
The traffic moved forward.
She kept walking. Slow. Steady. Head hung low. Never looking up.
I reached the intersection of two major crossroads. As I drove through, she kept walking. Slow and steady, against the stream of cars.
I exhaled in disbelief that she survived crossing that intersection without getting hurt.
The drivers in cars around me were furious, raged, annoyed.
Then, as my car crossed the railway line at the end of the crossroad, I saw her again.
She sat down. On the railway tracks. Right in the middle of the intersection.