Scattered Dreams & Dragonflies

The compassionate mechanic

I found myself standing outside, staring out from a house's garage. The place looked nothing like my real-life home, yet as I immersed myself in my surroundings, I felt a sense of warmth and comfort. The walls had a rugged, vintage texture, reminiscent of my grandmother's old home. Time had left resilient stains on the walls, dimming the last layer of many. These patterns continued all the way to the outside of the garage. At a certain point, I saw my mom and dad, both busy carrying boxes into the house through the garage as I stood in place.

"Hurry and help, we have to move everything to the new home by tonight," my mom said briefly as she continued moving things with my dad.

It seemed like we had moved to a new home. Without much thought, I obliged and began walking through the garage towards the outside. Now standing outside, I caught my first glimpse of the neighborhood. It was a simple yet elegant place. All the houses had the same style: a wooden door entrance with a gold frame and handle, and identical windows in size and style. The homes were aligned within a few feet of each other. The sidewalks were made of solid concrete, with stains accumulating along every division.

At the far end, a few houses on the opposite side, lived a mechanic. He was working on a few cars in front of his home, surrounded by three more people. All of them had grease stains on their worn-out shirts, a testament to their hard work. It seemed convenient to have a mechanic living so close by, someone I could take my car to if needed. Seeing that they noticed me from a distance, I waved. They waved back amicably, like good neighbors, and I went on about my day.

I continued to walk towards my car. From a few feet away, I could see the boxes I needed to take out in the back seat, waiting for me. To my surprise, I remembered that this was my very first real-life car, the same one my father bought for me when I got my license. It looked just like it does presently, down to the last detail. It was an older Ford model, a style my friends referred to as belonging to an "older demographic." Still, I had added more things over time, like a body kit, a pipe for a more elegant sound, and black and red stylish rims. It's not the best-looking car in the world, but I did my best to maintain it as pristine as possible over the years, and I was more than proud of that.

Opening my car, I turned it on so the motor could run for a bit. While it did, I left the backdoor open and took out one of the boxes. It wasn't a substantial distance, and I needed to get another box, so I opted to leave it open in front of our new home, planning to be back in less than a few seconds.

I put the box in the garage and turned around to get the other one. Looking outside again, I noticed the environment had changed. The sun and clouds were gone, replaced by night. A substantial number of men dressed in black hoodies with covered faces began to walk around the neighborhood. I stood in place, watching from within the garage. Every so often, a few of them would stop and look inside, locking eyes with me. Their stares were menacing and intimidating, typical of people looking to cause harm. Considering their numbers, they carried themselves with an air of invincibility and arrogance, one neither my parents nor I considered testing.

In my mind, I had already decided not to get close to the men. However, I remembered something very important: I had left my car running in front of our home, and worse, I had forgotten to close it. Urgently, I walked outside of the garage. From the corner of my eye, I saw the mechanic and his friends with their arms spread wide, not in an aggressive manner, but pleading with the men not to damage the surrounding cars.

It was an interesting image. Any normal mechanic whose job is to fix cars would consider a situation like this a golden opportunity, as the amount of profit he would make being the closest contact to his neighbors would be substantial. Still, I could see him and his group continuing to selflessly plead with the masked men as they moved by, asking them not to damage the cars of his neighbors. For a few moments, the men only walked through, ignoring everything nearby, looking around without any clear intent of harm. One of the men, however, took an interest in my car. He stopped in front of my car's open door and started looking inside. I remember desperately calling to the hooded man, pleading for him not to take anything. Ignoring my request, he grabbed a cup holder. Despite my pleas and the men around him telling him not to do it, he took the cup holder from my car. Feeling the pressure around him, out of frustration, he threw the cup holder in my direction. I took a step back, startled by the sight of the cup holder, and covered my face to avoid getting hit.

Uncovering myself, I felt a subtle pressure pulling me forward. It was the same hooded man, who now was targeting my necklace. The necklace was a graduation gift for my master's degree, with my graduation ring on it as well as the silver chain itself. Feeling his pull increasing with every moment, I grabbed his forearm, pleading for him not to pull on it, realizing that if he decided to pull even stronger, he would break it easily. Between his pulls, he suddenly stopped and locked eyes with me. Between heavy breaths and fatigue, he hesitated for a moment, then ran away and got lost in the crowd.