Of Accidents and New Beginnings

“Stupid boys and their stupid appetites,” you mutter grumpily to yourself as you cross the road with three, full-to-the-brim plastic grocery bags clutched in each of your small hands. “You’re lucky I love you guys so much, or you’d be probably be out on the streets starving.”

It’s a beautiful day, and you definitely had not been planning on using it to replenish the severely depleted cupboards in your apartment’s kitchen pantry.

Really, you should know by now – living with those boys means that things rarely ever go your way. People probably think you’re doted on by all of them; you are the only girl living with them, after all, and to the outside world, they’re a bunch of perfect, charming gentlemen. That is so not the case, though. Being best friends with almost all of them since your kindergarten days means that, if anything, they make it their lives’ missions to see who can irritate you the most in a twenty-four hour period. A ‘childhood past-time,’ they call it.

Still, finishing two weeks’ worth of groceries in five days is crossing a line, and when you get home, there will be hell to pay.

You know they’re all growing boys – even the eldest ones, although they insist that they’re way past puberty already – but seriously? This isn’t the work of a bunch of hungry, pubescent males; it’s the work of a troop of baboons. Don’t they know how expensive food gets these days? You try to make their dinners as healthy as possible, but it’s impossible to keep buying fresh fruit and vegetables when they inhale everything like damn vacuums. For the past month and a half, the speed with which they guzzle through the groceries has meant that all you guys could afford was ramen and rice, and honestly, it’s beginning to get rather frustrating.

 “Two weeks’ groceries in five days,” you repeat for the fifth time that day, shaking your head in a mixture of disgust, disbelief and reluctant awe. A huff escapes your mouth, and the air blows a strand of hair out of your face. “Jeez.”

Just wait, you think with pursed lips. When I get home, you’re all going to get a piece of my mi-

“WATCH OUT!”

What?

For a second, all you can do is stand there with your head cocked to the side, wondering who exactly is being told to watch out. As you look around, you notice that people around you are staring at you in horror, and you realise way too late what’s happening.

You only have enough time to turn your head a fraction to the right – to see the young bicyclist coming straight for you, a look of surprise and panic flashing across his face – before the groceries fly out of your hands and you fall to the ground, your body erupting in pain.

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“I’m fine, honestly, I’m okay-”

“I’m really, really sorry!” The bicyclist – a young boy who looks about thirteen or fourteen, and who seems to have been in a hurry on his way home from school – looks like he’s about to cry, and combined with the lopsided helmet on his head, he makes a rather sad image. Even though your body is sore, your