HIGHWAY

18

My eyes widened just with the realisation that I actually hit him. My hand covered my mouth as I watch the blood drip from his forearm. Being quick in reflexes he used him forearm to cover himself and being horrible with impulses I managed to aim his face. Thankfully, the knife wasn't sharp and the cut wasn't deep. He didn't look at the cut but his eyes were looking directly at me. He took a step forward and I took two back. Who knows what an injured tiger was upto especially when the culprit stood merely two steps away.

His shoulders sagged as he huffed and removed his deadly glare off me.

"Sorry" I manage to whisper.

If we say sorry to somebody, the polite ones curse us inwardly, cover their face with a smile and say 'no problem', the violent one usually don't prefer cursing inwardly but takes it personally using the opportunity to grill us up. But if you jab a knife in someone's flesh you would not expect either of those responses, you will only expect murderous threats from them followed by demos in some cases for sure. In this case, nothing like happened. Nop nothing, trust me.

Instead, he started laughing. My eyebrows connected.

Literally, he broke into a guffaw.

Can we play never have I ever, because seriously, never have I ever seen him laugh, like actually laugh.

I tried to find some strength and say something or ask him why he was laughing. What did he find so funny? Neither did I manage to make the moment hilarious by joining him. Who knew when he takes the chance to strike?

Therefore, I settled with the assumption that he was actually a psycho.

Once his laughter subdued he eyed me, still chuckling, and then extended that large packet towards me.

I have completely forgotten about it.

Raising an eyebrow, I opened my mouth carefully choosing the words watching his hand still extended in the air. One minute passed two minutes passed three minutes passed fifty ages passed, the words didn't come.

Irritatingly, he sighed audibly. "It's for you. There are clothes in it."

"Huh?"

Rolling his eyes, he repeated a little louder this time making me look like a fool "There are clothes in it. For you."

I eyed the bag and then his injured arm, it was still bleeding. He followed my gaze and started laughing again. Not hysterically like earlier but ya he laughed.

Shaking his head, he threw the parcel back to its place and took a seat on the couch. His elbows rested lazily on his knees and his eyes staring at the floor between his shoes. I still stood to my ground refusing to make any moment.

"You reminded me of my time." He paused and walked towards my bag and took out a first aid box which I had no idea was in there in the first place.

"When I was twelve, that was the first time I was attacked," he walked back, sat in his previous spot and started dressing his forearm, "they were some sort of street thieves. I was sitting behind a six star restaurant's kitchen. Martin, a worker in that restaurant, he was a nice guy. He use to give me some food which was rejected by a few of their customers because of major issues like, this has cheese, this a cherry in it, the presentation is not up to the mark etc etc. He used to be the one who never threw that food and gave it to me. One day I was eating the left over spaghetti. Martin told me one of the chief has found out about me so he wanted me to run before he catches me here sitting behind in a corner eating the leftover food. He wasn't afraid about losing his job or anything. He was afraid what if he hurt me. So I ran dumping the food in bin but forgot to leave the fork behind.