Today is my daughter Sarah’s birthday.
Every year for sixteen years around this time I can’t help but remember.
It was just an ordinary day. I woke up, took a bath, had breakfast went off to work with my motorbike.
At work it went as always: coffee break at ten. Lunch at twelve. Another coffee break at three and by five I’m done.
It was almost winter, it got customary dark after four; I’m used to that already. It didn’t bother me anymore.
Instead of going by the industrial terrain I have chosen to take the other route, the one that cut through the fields of giant corns. There were no houses around but I knew the place like the back of my hand. I always drive through there to go home especially during the summer to avoid the big trucks that populated the industrial zone. Last year, one of them drove me and my bike into the ditch leaving me with a broken arm.
Headlights appeared behind me. I moved over to the side to let the vehicle pass. It didn’t. Car door opened and before I knew what was happening I was pushed to the ground faced down. I felt a sharp object against my neck. My jeans was pulled round my knees. I couldn’t move. There was something heavy on my back.
I felt blinding pain. I must have passed out because I knew nothing of what happened next. When I woke up I was alone on that lonely, dark freezing road aching.
I took a long shower when I got home. I doubted my sanity for a while. I quit my job and moved away. I never told anyone.
Nine months later, my daughter Sarah was born.