Chapter 1: Routine and the Sun
It was just after noon and the city sun beat down mercilessly, the kind that burns the back of your neck and puts you in a bad mood. The concrete jungle was as usual: a cacophony of honking horns, diesel fumes, and people rushing to get nowhere.
“Let’s go, dude, we’re going to be late for work!” I yelled to Beto, my lifelong brother, while I adjusted my helmet.
Beto, always calm, just smiled and patted the seat of our trusty scooter. “The Mighty One,” we affectionately called it. A humble but tough little machine, with license plate OYI-49G, that knew every pothole in this city. We didn’t have much money, to be honest, but with that scooter we made enough for expenses, rent, and even to get tacos.
We got on. I was driving that day. Feeling the wind, even if it was hot and smoggy, always gave you a sense of freedom that the subway or a bus never could. We were doing fine, navigating the traffic on the main avenue, weaving between stopped cars and exchanging curses. Everything was normal. Pure routine.
Until it ceased to be so.
Chapter 2: The Creak of Destiny
I don’t know where it came from. I swear on my dear mother I didn’t see it coming.
One second we were moving forward, and the next, the world came crashing down on us. Literally. A gigantic white shadow appeared on the right. It was a cargo truck, a JAC, heavy and blind, whose driver was probably distracted by his cell phone or simply didn’t care about the traffic light.
The sound was the worst. It wasn’t a sharp bang, it was a cracking sound. Like they were crushing bone and metal at the same time. CRACK!
I felt the side impact, a brutal force that ripped me from the handlebars. I flew. I don’t know how long I was in the air, maybe milliseconds, but it felt like an eternity. When I landed, the pavement greeted me with its hardness and scorching heat. I rolled a couple of times until instinct made me stop.
My whole body ached, adrenaline was buzzing in my ears, but my first thought wasn’t for myself.
“Beto!” I shouted, my throat dry from the fright and the dust.
I got up as best I could, staggering, ignoring the sharp pain in my right leg. And then I saw the scene. The scene that will haunt my nightmares for the rest of my days.
Chapter 3: On Our Knees Before Tragedy
Our “Mighty One” was gone. It was embedded, chewed up beneath the front bumper of the white monster. The truck had finally stopped after dragging it several meters. The truck driver hadn’t even gotten out yet, paralyzed perhaps by fear or guilt.
But my eyes were searching for something else. I was searching for my brother.
“Beto, no way, answer me!” I yelled again, panic starting to choke me.
And I saw him. He was lying right in front of the wrecked motorcycle. Motionless. The black helmet I had lent him had rolled a few meters away, useless now.
I ran toward him. I didn’t care that the cars in the other lanes kept passing, I didn’t care about the risk. I reached his side and the world stopped for the second time.
Beto was face down. There was blood. A lot of blood on the gray asphalt. He wasn’t moving.
My legs, which had withstood the impact and the run, finally gave way. Not from physical pain, but from the unbearable weight of reality. I fell to my knees right there, in the middle of the avenue, next to his lifeless body. (It’s the exact moment someone captured in that photo, the red circle of my despair.)
I leaned over him, not daring to move him because you know that could make things worse. I clasped my hands together, I don’t know if to pray—it had been years since I’d set foot in a church—or simply to beg the universe that this was all a cruel joke.
“Dude, please don’t go! Hang on, man, hang on!” My tears started to fall, mixing with the sweat and grime of the road. “Open your eyes, you bastard, don’t leave me alone with this mess!”
Chapter 4: The Hellish Wait
People started to gather around us. Morbid curiosity is the national sport. I heard distant voices: “Call an ambulance!”, “We’re screwed!”, “Record it for Facebook!”.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was a man with a worried expression.
—The paramedics are coming, young man. Stay calm. Don’t move him.
Calm down. How the hell could he tell me to stay calm? My best friend, my brother, was bleeding out on the hot pavement while the culprit was still locked in his truck cab.
Rage surged through me for a second. I wanted to get up, go to the truck, drag the driver out and make him pay right there. But weakness won out. I returned to my knees, humiliated by life.
I took off my own helmet and threw it aside in frustration. I leaned closer, pressing my forehead almost to the ground, near Beto’s head. I could hear his breathing. It was weak, wheezing, as if he was struggling to get enough air.
“I promise we’ll get through this,” I whispered in his ear, though I wasn’t sure if he could hear me. “We’ll fix the bike, man, and we’ll go to the beach like we wanted. But don’t give up now. Don’t give up!”
Every second was torture. The distant sound of a siren became my only hope. The sun continued to blaze, indifferent to our misery.
There, kneeling on the asphalt, I understood how fragile we are. One second you’re planning your day, and the next you’re just another statistic on the evening news. The asphalt doesn’t forgive mistakes, neither our own nor anyone else’s.
The siren was getting closer. I looked up at the sky, or what little sky I could see through the smog, and offered one last silent prayer as the ambulance’s shadow finally enveloped us. The fight had only just begun.
