“Me first,” the old man shouted as he pushed through the crowd. His words reminded me of my daughter. She’d always had to be first, like most kids.
I stood there watching–just watching–as the old man struggled with the high step onto the bus. No one bothered helping him.
I allowed my thoughts to wander. I thought of my little girl, of what I was leaving behind.
I looked at my suitcase, and thought of my wife. We tried. We really did, but we couldn’t make it work.
I got on the bus. Looking back, I wish I hadn’t.
This one is a bit outside of my usual, but I like it. I think there’s an overwhelming sadness to it, which is like a second cousin of horror. Or something like that anyway.
Written for Friday Fictioneers.
Click here to read the other stories.