I pulled into the parking lot at work, and I honestly wasn't thinking much about that dead old man. I didn't have time for feeling sorry for what happened. After all, I do have bills to pay. Besides, it didn't change my life at all. So why should I care?
I walked into work with my a clear head. That old man wasn't going to get to me...never...never...never. I could care less about him. It meant nothing to me. I didn't even cry. It didn't bother me. I sat there at my desk and finished up the financial reports.
On my drive home I couldn't stop thinking about that old man. I don't give a crap about him being dead. The flashbacks of the glass stuck in his neck with the blood pouring out everywhere didn't bother me. Not at all. I pressed my foot on the accelerator and drove faster and faster until I made it home.
I watched some television to get the thought of him out of my head. It helped, a little. I still think about him. I see his face crying out to me everywhere I go. I can almost hear his last whispered words. I can still see the twisted metal of his car and the broken glass.
I still don't care about it though. I think about it a lot, but it doesn't really bother me.