Death By A Tricycle

It all started years and years ago before you or I were born, in a place not so far away from here. It was a young boys fifth birthday, and for weeks he had been practically begging his parents for the latest trike which every boy his age wanted. Fate (or more appropriately – the calendar) had not been on his side that year, and he reluctantly had to go to school on his birthday. He spent the whole day anxiously running and jumping around, his little head filled with excitement and anticipation. He eagerly waited for the bell to declare victory (aka hometime) and he ran as fast as he could with a huge beaming smile spread across his face, and he met his parents at the school gate. Ten minutes later, their spacious family car pulled up in the drive, the boys mother helped him out of the car and he happily skipped to the front door.

As soon as the key turned in the lock and the door creaked open, the boy raced inside and his eyes gleamed as he saw a large poorly wrapped present stood in the middle of the living room. “It must be a trike! It HAS to be a trike!” he thought whilst tearing away the wrapping paper. He turned to his parents with a sweet toothy grin on his face as he politely asked them whether he could go out in the street and play with his new toy. His mother stood outside and attentively watched him slowly make his way down the street. As he got to the end of the street she shouted and told him to turn around and come back which he did. He started to get faster now. He zoomed past her and she waved at him with a proud smile filling up a large majority of her face. He continued to cycle down the road and he was approaching the end of the street when a speeding car quickly turned around the corner – but did not manage to manoeuvre around the boy. Many residents of that road still say that he haunts the streets on misty winter nights. Zooming through the fog on his trike, with decaying skin and small brittle hands clung tightly to the handlebars, still bitter, envious, and hungry for revenge. If you can’t remember far back enough to recall the first time you rode a tricycle, then be thankful, because he will never forget.

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