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00.END OF IT ALL
˖*⋆｡˚𖦹࣪˖ ִֶָ⋆｡°✩
SOMETIMES
the worst things happen to the best people. At least, that's what everyone likes to believe, maybe as a pitiful way of trying to make themselves feel better or superior—that this only happened to me because I'm such a good person. Or maybe, others just say these things to justify horrible things, because it, quote, builds character. Life experience is bullshit, when all it does is destroy everything you stood for. Experience doesn't matter when you have nothing for that experience actually to matter.
Your grandpa was a piece of shit asshole. You knew that. Your family knew that. You were sure that if you screamed it out to the whole world, they would know it too. You think that maybe, after cussing him out during a match one too many times, that maybe, he took control of the wheel and decided to get back at you. Down from wherever he was, you hoped he rot alone.
You liked to believe you were a good person, at least, better than he was. Sure, you didn't walk little old ladies down the street, and you sometimes did walk by those people holding up signs without tossing a coin in their cup (although a lot of those people were scammers, so you could justify yourself there), but you liked to believe that you weren't bad. You might not have run after somebody because they forgot their wallet on the train, but you did bring people up when they were at their lowest.
You weren't particularly skilled or anything. Actually, you were pretty average. But, if there was one thing about you that was special, it was that you knew exactly what people wanted to hear—even if they didn't know it themselves. Everybody, even if they don't want to believe it, can and will be predicted. It's just human nature, and because there are only so many things you can do before it ranges to the lengths of socially unacceptable or straight-up unlikely. Some people could predict a few things, maybe what their closest friend would want to order off a menu, or what kind of shirt their sibling would steal from them. You—however—you could predict much more special things.
Things like, where a person would be going before they went, where a person would aim, or even what they think in those split few seconds when they have to decide where to pass.
That was your talent—and you were fine with it. It helped you bring others up, and tear others down. You could guess it all—guessing was your talent. Even in the most dire situations, you can see it clearly, like through a thick glass lens, and think about it perfectly solid.
You could predict things in a soccer match, but you could never, in a million years, predict this happening.
It was just another day after a match, and you were exhausted. You spent the entire time running around from place to place, thinking so much your head pounded, and then ran back with the rest of your team, still high on your win. You collapsed in your car, half asleep with squinted eyes and staring into the street. Your parents talked idly—but their conversation was nothing but white noise in your tired state. You lay down in the back of the car, seatbelt loosely around your legs, a careless action that your parents didn't seem to notice.
