He parked his car at the beginning of the dusty road where it all began. He remembered his mother’s look. Her look was mixed with defiance and revenge. Revenge for his disobedience. Watse recalled his father giving his
support, but could anyone ever stand against his mother? “Go and never return,” she cried out 10 years ago. “We do not pick wives from that village,” she said.
He made up his mind like he had always done in the past, “I will go home today,” but unlike in the past, he didn’t change his mind.

He was deep in thoughts. Fuming in thoughts to be precise. Znigy felt anger burn like an incense, and he took in the dangerous fumes. Why did he always have to be the one delivering the long-distance goods? Why couldn’t others do it? Discrimination in his own motherland. He didn’t do it, he was set up, but how could he prove it? He was a foreigner in his land.
For a moment, he closed his eyes. He resolved to speak up, after all, he didn’t kill anyone. Or so he thought.

A crash. Screams. Blood. Wailing sympathisers. Looting bystanders. An  over-late emergency team.

Too late.

Gone.

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