The unshaven homeless man unscrewed the top off his bottle of whisky which was nearly empty and drank greedily. He pushed his thick brown hair to the side, giving the passing woman a glare making her walk faster away from him. He took another gulp and returned the bottle to the pocket of his torn leather coat which he had on.
To the people around who saw Bob Russel he was a bum, a piece of trash in society, but what they didn't know was Bob was a normal person just like them. Just six short months ago he was a successful journalist for the Sunday Times with a high paying salary, a large house, two luxury cars and a loving wife and a child. That seemed like a long time ago and Bob dreamt of having it again.
He couldn't stop thinking about that night when he and his family were on the road traveling back from a family gathering, when out of no where it came out of no where.
The semi trailer had veered across the other side of the road and destroyed his life. He survived but to him he didn't take it as granted, as he blamed himself for the death of his wife and daughter. If only he had taken more time fitting the roof rack; if only he had put in a litre more of petrol, he would have missed it, if only.
Bob looked liked he was like twenty five years old. The effects of sleepless nights and alcohol abuse being responsible for the heavy blue black bags beneath his blood red eyes. This once young and happy face had been changed by a semi trailer, which had gate-crashed his once normal life. Bob was now unemployed, his once luxurious house had...