Willbend Street

William escaped the rose-colored desk, padded chair, and clock that told him it was five minutes after seven by reading a book. He was a relatively happy man of twenty-seven. He was married with two kids and a wife, lived comfortably, and for the most part had no issues with his existence. His only complaints were formed in the moments when he had nothing to do or focus on. In simple terms, William disliked the moments where his life was not occupied.

Working as an E.M.T., his mind did not do well when it roamed of its own accord. It could go from thinking of the best plays of the last game he had seen, to the worst images of the last crash he had responded to, all without warning, in the span of less than a heartbeat. So in those moments …show more content…
It was easy enough to deny the gruesome parts their residences in his mind, it was the signs that lead up to them that were stubborn. After all, people died everyday, that was simply a part of life. However, it was not everyday that plastics and glass and metal littered the road, that your smells were overwhelmed by sickness, or that you heard the ticking of a turn signal over a person's faint, pained cries for help. Those held a permanent place in his mind.

Willbend street was no longer Willbend street, but rather the place where a family of three died after being t-boned by a drunk driver. The motel down the street was the place where a man died of a heart attack and no one found him for a week.
With kids, it was hard to let them grow up in such a world. That man with half his head hanging out the car was someone's child wasn't he? Tomorrow, or in a few years, it could just as easily have been him or his wife or his chidren. Death wasn't too picky about who it got. His solution to distance himself was books. As long as you had light, you could read. And with reading, you had a great deal of control promised to you, an insurance clause that stayed with every book you …show more content…
He was eventually so absored by the universe of ink that he did not hear as his door opened, and a person entered. The person was the oldest of their two kids, a five year old boy named Will after his father.
"Dad?" He asked.
William lowered his book in mild surprise as he turned to face the boy.
"Yes?"
"I had a question for mommy, but mommy was busy with sissy, so she told me to come ask you."
"Alright. Go ahead sport."
The child shifted uncomfortably, as if he knew what he was asking might be an odd question. "Why do babies cry?"
William smiled as the question turned out to be tame. "Well, it's how they talk to us. They haven't learned how to speak, so they cry. Sometimes they're scared and aren't able to do anything, so they'll cry because it's all they can do."
The little boy nodded, satisfied with the answer. "Does that answer your question son?"
He gave another