Text a he looked as though he hadnt eaten in days his legs - GED Prep

Text A

He looked as though he hadn't eaten in days: his legs were like sticks which might snap, his face was gaunt like a skeleton and his eyes begged us to save him. I was nine and didn't understand why there was a man living outside.

Mum, please can we... I began to plead.

No, absolutely not, Jade! My mother grabbed my hand and she dragged me away from the man sitting in a shop doorway, like a package nobody wanted.

The next day, it was in the paper that he had died. Alone, in the bitter-cold, with no one who cared for him.

 I couldn't shake the image of the man from my mind. His desperate eyes seemed to follow me everywhere, pleading for help that never came. It gnawed at my conscience like a persistent itch, the feeling that we could have done something, anything, to alleviate his suffering. But my mother's stern refusal echoed in my ears, drowning out any other thought.

As days passed, the memory of the man faded for many, but not for me. I found myself wondering about his life before he became a shadow on the streets, before hunger hollowed out his cheeks and despair clouded his eyes. What led him to that cold, unforgiving corner of the world? Did he have dreams once, like I did?

The news of his death hit me harder than I expected. Alone, in the bitter-cold – those words carried a weight I couldn't shake off. He wasn't just a nameless figure in the streets anymore; he was someone who had once laughed, loved, and dreamed. Someone who deserved dignity and compassion, not to wither away in obscurity. That realization ignited a fire within me, a determination to make a difference, no matter how small.

Text B

They said he was a vampire, and that's why you never saw him during the day. Kids used to run past his house with their eyes closed. But Big Mike from my class at school liked to show off by running right up to the house and rapping the window while we watched from a safe distance. Sometimes, we would see the curtain twitch and a wild mass of white hair appear briefly, and we would all shriek and run home immediately.

It was only years later that I started to feel ashamed of our behavior. I read in the newspaper that Mr. Jacobs, aged 98, had died at home but was only discovered six months later, when a postman raised the alarm after noticing the peculiar smell. In his living room were dozens and dozens of beautiful paintings, of children on bikes, smiling and playing together in the neighbourhood. Looking at them in the paper, I suddenly realized the children in the pictures were supposed to be us. I wept.

As the years passed and childhood bravado gave way to adult reflection, the memory of Mr. Jacobs haunted me. I couldn't shake the feeling of guilt for our unfounded fear and cruelty towards him. It was a bitter pill to swallow, realizing that the man we thought was a sinister creature of the night was, in reality, a lonely old soul longing for connection. The paintings he left behind served as poignant reminders of the innocence we had lost and the kindness we had failed to show.

Driven by a sense of remorse, I decided to pay a visit to Mr. Jacobs' house, now vacant and for sale. Stepping inside, I was overwhelmed by the musty scent of neglect. But as I wandered through the rooms adorned with his paintings, I couldn't help but feel a profound sense of loss. In that moment, I made a silent vow to never again judge based on appearances and to always extend compassion, even to those who society deems different or strange. Mr. Jacobs may have left this world, but his legacy lived on in those vibrant, joyful paintings, a testament to the beauty that exists within every misunderstood soul.

What contrast can you make about the behaviors of the protagonists in the two texts?