We met at the laundromat. When I told you I was an actor, you told me about a screenplay you wrote. I was uncomfortable, you were a strange old man, and I could have been nicer to you. Two years later, I saw you trying to walk down the street, a monstrous shade of your former self. The accident crippled you, you were hunched over to the side, you’d gained so much weight, and your face was red from the pain of moving. Every step got you a couple inches further, and you had so far to go. I should have helped you. We met eyes for a moment. Your eyes pleaded with me for help, but I didn’t catch it. I just smirked and hopped in my car and drove away. I should have helped you.
But I didn’t.
Because I’m a bad person.