Run

My mother stands in the middle of the road, her golden hair whipping in the atumn breeze. My mother looks like those angels that I see in picture books at school, right down to that sad, innocent smile. She gives me one of those smiles, her pale lips curling upwards.

A squeal is heard as tires skim the semi-frozen pavement, horns blaring as the car slams into my mother.

All I could do is scream.