"A sad twist to an incident
in the MRT train" was an essay I submitted recently in school.
I started to cry.
Recently, my grades had
dropped from As to Cs due to my conceit and addiction to playing online games.
My parents were totally devastated by the drop in my academic grades. Being
uneducated food hawkers, all they could do was try to counsel me but to no
avail. To make matters worse, I recently failed my Mathematics exam; and
Mathematics had always been my strongest suit. That was the final straw. My
attitude in class deteriorated. I was also coerced by Joe and his cool gang
into taking up smoking. Several weeks after my first puff, I was addicted.
Every puff was like a lifeline – offering me temporary relief from my current
predicament.
My addiction soon came
to an unpredictable end.
“Blast it! There is not
enough money to buy cigarettes!” I grumbled like an old man as I entered the
MRT train bound for home. Slumping onto the nearest unoccupied brightly-coloured
cold seat, I double-checked my wallet. My fear was confirmed. I sighed in great
frustration. How could I obtain enough money to buy my cigarettes? All at once,
an idea began formulating in my mind like a planted seed germinating. I began
planning and looking around for possible victims.
My eyes settled on the
frail old lady sitting beside me. This made it easy for me to execute my plan.
Rubbing my hands in glee, I prayed for the old lady to be on the train until it
reached my station.
It seemed like an
eternity before the train arrived at my station. Shooting a glance to my right,
I could not believe my luck! The old lady was still sitting beside me. At that
juncture, the train doors hissed open.
I snatched the old
lady’s Prada bag out of her scrawny hands. The old lady screamed in a hoarse
voice for help. Immediately, I took to my heels, running out of the MRT train
and wormed my way swiftly through the startled crowd. After running like an
escaped convict for an imperceptibly long time, I hid myself at the stairway of
an HDB block a few hundred meters away from the MRT station and looked around
nervously to see if I was followed.
Waiting for another ten
minutes and seeing that the coast was clear, I made my way to the nearby
convenience store to purchase my favourite brand of cigarettes. The stall
owner, a middle-aged man who was as bald as an egg, examined me like a specimen
with suspicious eyes while handing me the packet of Marlboro cigarettes. Before
he could further utter a single word, I hastily slammed down twenty dollars on
the counter and skedaddled into a nearby public toilet to take a puff.
“Ah … just what I
need,” I muttered contentedly before taking another puff of the cigarette.
Adrenaline surged through my body with every puff. Tossing the finished
cigarette onto the grey floor, I took a deep breath. I was literally on cloud
nine. In high spirits, I opened the cubicle door. To my utter astonishment, I
was greeted my two grim-looking, stocky men in blue. The old lady whose handbag
I had snatched from earlier was standing beside them.
Apparently, the old
lady had called the police to report about the snatch theft with the help of
the MRT station staff. My mind soon came screeching to a halt. All feelings of
the euphoric happiness that I had experienced earlier abandoned me. Trembling
like a winter leaf, I could do nothing but let the policemen handcuff me. As I
walked out of the toilet, passers-by shot me disapproving looks. I hung my head
in shame. Seeing the dreadfully familiar police car, I bit my lips in regret,
thinking about how disappointed my parents would be and how I had just ruined
my future. Clambering into the police car, my lips quivered. Tears welled up in
my obsidian black eyes.
I started to cry.
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