He came back home. The thoughts of what had happened earlier kept coming back to him. Without uttering a word to anyone, he called his father, who was at work, to let him know what had happened. He hung up and proceeded to his balcony. He needed a cigarette. Cigarettes seemed to be the only thing capable of clearing his mind. He wondered what his next step should be. Everyone would be home soon and would want to inform the police. He knew that the police would be of no use. He had lived in this country, all his life and knew that this was not how things worked. For a second his attention shifted to the cigarette in his hand and he took a long last drag watching the tobacco burn as he inhaled a cloud of smoke. He needed to clean up. There was no alcohol where he lived. No one used to drink in his family. It was against his religion. He went to his father’s bedroom to look for any sort of antiseptic for the cuts or maybe some aftershave. Having found a plastic bottle containing Savlon he hurried to wash up. His head was spinning and he turned on the cold shower. He took off his half torn shirt and started to pour the plastic bottle of Savlon on the cuts on his back. He was not sad, he was not frustrated, but as the deep cuts from his back started to burn, tears rolled down his eyes.
He was not one of those guys who cried. He never thought that crying was silly or girly, no, he had grown up learning that all were equal. But he didn’t cry. He had not cried when close family had passed away. He was sad, in grief, in pain but he had not cried. He had not cried when he left the one girl he had ever loved. It had nearly killed him. But this was different. There was no grief or sadness, only the pain from the deep cuts burning him. After empty to plastic bottle he got into the cold shower and sat down just under it. He stared at the wall opposite thinking things over. He had gone out early in the morning to help a friend run a charity event. On his way back, he had been stopped by some muggers, who beat him up and took his mobile phone. Amateurs. He was not an expert but they didn’t frisk his pockets or take his wallet. He would rather, that they had just taken everything and not touch him. He was very unlucky, at the wrong place at the wrong time. He was unlucky that they mugged him. But they too, he though, would be unlucky because they mugged him. A cold smile spread across his face. By the time he was out, his parents were back home. Mum was crying and dad was worried.
The Term Paper on Hazards Of Plastic Bags
Plastic Bags hanging from the branches, flying in the air, stuck in corners racing along with the vehicles on the road are – as we all can see – PLASTIC BAGS. This wonder material of the 20th century has invaded every aspect of our lives; it is all over the place messing up the streets and parks, clogging up the drains and gutters. These plastic bags or shoppers as they are commonly called are ...
He told them, that it was just a robbery. They took his phone and didn’t even touch him. Lucky for him that they hadn’t given him a black eye or something, after what he did. So a few hours ago, seven guys, much older, maybe on their mid-twenties had circled him. Their leader, or whoever was acting in charge had without a word, grabbed him by his collar. He laughed. They had done this hoping that this would scare him into not doing anything stupid. As soon as one of them had grabbed his collar, he slapped the mugger hard across the face. Sure, he knew the math. There were seven of them. He was one. They were older, taller and possibly stronger and much more experienced maybe in fights. He knew what the consequences of slapping their leader was.. They were going to beat the living hell out of him. The slap was followed by silence, which surprised me. By the look of their faces.