Anthology of daily crisis
Going to school was never fun. This day felt no different.
The morning began with my mother waking me up. It was 5 a.m., and the first thing I saw was the ceiling above me — blank, white, and empty. There was no design, no colour, just plain white space, as if anything could be painted upon it. Somehow, that emptiness felt like relief. It made me believe there was still hope — that something new could be created on that untouched canvas.
I got up, straightened myself, freshened up, and went downstairs. My mother handed me my uniform. Soon, I was ready to go to school.
I picked up my bicycle and started pedalling through the familiar streets. Along the way, I passed by several shops and faces — some pretty, some ordinary, just like mine. Then, I saw something strange and unpleasant. Two dogs were stuck together from behind, and an uncomfortable feeling crept over my skin. Others around seemed to feel the same disgust.
A large man approached the dogs. I wondered what he was going to do. Then, he picked up a stone. Before I could even process it, he struck one of the dogs brutally. The poor animals yelped in panic. In their attempt to escape, one dog’s body tore apart — its insides spilling out — and it died right there on the road. The other ran away, its body still half-dragging what remained attached.
The big man shouted, “It wasn’t me who did wrong! It was the dogs — they were disgusting from the start!” Then he left, leaving everyone around in shock.
A nearby shopkeeper told his worker to get rid of the dead dog. When I kept looking at it, the man scolded me and said, “Don’t look at that. This is nothing new. Street dogs are treated that way.” I said nothing and continued to school.
The day passed quietly. When school ended, I rode back home. On the way, I saw the same big man again — but this time, he was gently pushing an old lady’s wheelchair. I couldn’t believe it was the same person.
Curious, I stopped at the same shop to buy a drink. The same worker handed it to me. I asked him if he knew that man. “Yes,” he said. “He isn’t a bad person. He just hates dogs.”
I then asked about the old lady. “She’s his mother,” the worker said. “He’s the only one who takes care of her.”
I stood there, speechless. It was strange to see how one person could carry two faces — one cruel, one kind — depending on who stood before him.
That night, lying in bed, I thought about everything I had seen. My mother entered my room and told me to either study or sleep. I chose sleep, and she turned off the lights.
In the darkness, I looked up at the ceiling. It wasn’t white anymore — just empty, swallowed by blackness. I couldn’t imagine painting anything on that dark surface. There was no space for hope left in me.
