Bab 7: SOFIA

I have always loved the city. The sights. The buildings. The people. It's always an entrancing sight, but not so much as the cab sped past them.

The tall buildings that I have to cran my neck to see. The shops with lights like a Christmas tree. The arts on the buildings and streets. The graffiti. The wares displayed over glass panes. The antique stores with souvenirs from the past. The jewels that gleamed in the morning light on glass shelves.

People walking their dogs and cats. Those chatting in front of restaurants and coffee shops. The queue in front of the famous La Doux Bakery and their peculiar smell drifted in the air. Beggars and the homeless asking for alms. Teachers and students running late. Even my favorite game of checking and judging styles and fashion of passersby, felt dull.

My mind was too reeled by hate and anger to care about anything else.

"Why do people think that because they are rich, they are more than human? Like their wealth offers a superpower and a level higher than people like me? And must they always be assholes without a shred of humanity?"

Questions kept charging through my mind. Again and again, building up my rage. I hated Alicia and her daughters. I hated the blond fool I met minutes ago and I hated the man who I once called father, the woman who loved him and I hated life.

It felt like all those anger and rage I had suppressed in the past were now building and rising to the surface.

There are people born with anger issues. Inherently, it's in them and there are those whose life and experiences turn them into a boiling lava waiting to erupt. And I fear mine was almost about to erupt.

I tasted tears. Salty against my sugary lipstick. Why was I even crying? Why is my life so messed up? Why can't I ever be happy? Why must life be cruel to me and why can't people just be people?

"Young lady, are you alright?" The middle aged driver asked.

"Great! Now I have to contend with pity." I muttered.

"What was that?" The man asked, his eyes were kind and the color of the sky on a sunny morning like this.

Sniffing back my tears, I snapped, "I said I'm fine, just keep your eyes on the road and get me to where I'm heading. Gosh, can't someone have a moment of privacy?"

"Sorry, I didn't mean to be all up in your business. It's just that I hate seeing people in tears. It does something to me" he replied, his eyes glinting with kindness and something that came close to tears.

"Oh God. Have I become an asshole myself? Have I become the same people I hate?" The questions echoed through my mind in waves of guilt.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be harsh. Life just hasn't been fair, this morning most of all" I apologized.

"Oh you don't have to apologize, I totally understand. The truth is that life never is. Even those you think theirs is perfect, are also dealt with blows from life."

"I doubt that. If it's so, then they won't be such assholes"

The man smiled. From the rear mirror,

I noticed, he looked younger when he

smiled.

"My dear" he said, "rich or poor. Male or female. White or black. Life deals with each of us in its own way. And we react to it in our own way, some cry, no offense–"

"None taken" I quickly responded, wiping my eyes.

His smile stretched more as he continued, "Others rage about it, some even kill themselves when the blow is too much to bear and there are some who respond by being 'assholes'. But me, I pray about it. Plaster a smile on my face and keep going. And I advise you to do the same."

I could tell that he really meant that last part. His demeanor and smile spoke volumes of his kindness, and how much he wanted to share it with anyone he came in contact with.

But I didn't believe in God or that there's anyone up there who answered prayers. If there was, certainly my circumstances would have been different or changed by now.

I once believed when my life had been a bubble. We were happy and life had been kind then. We went to church every Sunday and prayed every night. Even the man who I once called 'dad' participated in these activities. I remember he used to be diligent and so loving. Everyone at our local church loved him. But I guess all that was a lie.

But if there had been a God, he deserted us that fateful night as we watched the news. And I remember how fervently I prayed for everything to be fine, for my mom to be released, even my dad. I was eight then and I didn't hate him as much as I do now.

I even prayed for Alicia to be kind, to treat me like I was a human just like her. And I know, it's stupid, but I remember also praying for a fairy godmother, anyone or anything that would save me from the cruelty I faced just like my favorite Disney princess, Cinderella.

But as I grew, without any of these prayers answered. I succumbed to reality and shunned away fantasies, gods and beliefs. Waiting to be saved was something that happened in books and fairytales and my life was either.

I don't really remember the particular age when I became resolved to change my own fate. But I think it was after three years of laboring, surviving on crumbs and going to bed late. With each day worse than the last, I decided to stop wasting my strength and energy on wishes and prayers. I accepted my fate, went about my activities, groomed myself and I know one day, I will change my fate. Starting with securing this job, no matter what it takes… if I haven't missed it entirely.

"Thanks for your advice" I said when I realized the man was waiting for a response.

"Happy to help, and by the way, I'm Gary"

"Sofia," I answered.

"Nice to meet you, Sofia. I don't know what it is that prompted your tears or anger earlier, but I assure you, all will be fine. Just keep going, keep praying and with time, all will be well." He assured in that kind tone that can affect even the stoniest of hearts.

"Thank you once again. I'm immensely grateful" I forced myself to say in a voice I hope sounded optimistic.

It would be cruel to tell Gary that prayers were useless. That all he needed was to keep going and striving for better without believing or hoping that there's anyone up there, down below or anywhere helping. In the battle against life, I'm afraid we stand alone.

So, I just nodded when he waved off my thanks.

I rolled the glass all the way down, and allowed the morning breeze sweep my hair and face. I heard a chuckle of approval from Gary as he stepped on the gas.

My happiness was cut short as we made a turn straight into honking cars and shouting men.

"Great" I groaned as we joined the line

of cars, honking to get across.

Five minutes after Gary made inquiries. We discovered that this wasn't ordinary traffic, two men had blocked the road. Apparently, one of them clashed into the other and he was too stubborn to accept his mistake.

And the victim was also too stubborn to let go. Two stubborn hotheads, refusing to back down. The situation had gotten so bad that they had punctured each other's tires, meaning that the only way any of the cars were leaving was with a towing van and the closest towing company was on the other side of town.

In essence, I wasn't leaving anytime soon.

Amidst the horns and traffic, the sirens of a cop car blared. But even with their involvement, they only managed to get the men to stop yelling. Little help they could do to get the cars out of the way. Only the towing van which would take more than 30 minutes to get here could help and I would be damned if I wait.

After trying for the dozenth time to convince Gary to take his fee, all to no avail. I dashed out of there.