That was the only thing I could feel. Even though it had been hours since the accident I could still feel the pain. I tried to look at my left hand, but I couldn’t. I tore my gaze away as if the sight could kill me. I couldn’t look. I didn’t want to see what had happened. I didn’t want to see an incomplete hand.
“Its fine”, people told me. “It happens…you will get over it…”, they said.
I nodded silently, not really believing at all. Easy for them to say. They didn’t lose a part of their self, I did. I feel the pain, not them.
I wanted to sleep. But I couldn’t. Every time I close my eyes, that same scene plays in front of my eyes. I am walking to the bus stop. I am a bit late, so I am in a hurry. My friend is close by, and as we approach the bus stop, a bus arrives. It prepares to leave, so we rush. We rush to board the bus. The bus slows down for us to get in. My friend gets in. I jump into the bus but my left hand hits the side…….
I jerk awake as if I am struck by lightning. Sweat runs down my face as I struggle to regain my breath. After a few deep breaths, I feel alright. I wipe the sweat off with both my hands, and as I do so, I catch sight of my left arm. The sight I had been dreading. My arm, my fingers, everything was there. But something was different. Something was missing. Something that was part of my life, my arm, my soul.
I am walking to the bus stop. I am a bit late, so I am in a hurry. My friend is close by, and as we approach the bus stop, a bus arrives. It prepares to leave, so we rush. We rush to board the bus. The bus slows down for us to get in. My friend gets in. I jump into the bus but my left hand hits the side. I turn to my left to see what has happened. Meanwhile the bus starts moving. I watch in slow motion as my watch gets ripped off my hand and falls down on the concrete road. Shocked and frozen, I don’t know what to do. A part of me said it was fine. The other part of me wanted to jump out of the bus and get my watch. I didn’t. I let it go. I was out of my senses for far too long to make a decision. Now I sat in the bus with an empty hand, an empty wrist. It felt odd. I kept glancing at my wrist hoping my watch would magically reappear.
It was five years ago that I got my watch. It was a gift from my relatives. My watch was with me 24 X 7 for 5 whole years. It had been there for me in my moments of glory, and my deepest heartbreaks. My watch probably knew more about me than anyone else. Because it was with me always. Because it was part of me.
And now back home, I sit in my bed replaying the dreadful scene. And every time my watch falls off, I have to fight back tears. Knowing that it fell on unforgiving concrete, knowing that vehicles run through that very road, and knowing that I will never ever see my watch ever again. It just hurts.
Tears well up in my eyes as I stare at my incomplete left hand.
“I’m sorry…I love you”…