Her limp body was thrown carelessly upon the cold, hard cement, devoured by the unforgiving world. An image that is etched into my disturbed mind. The violent red blood that covered her, highlighted how pale, how lifeless, her once animated face had become. The tears flooded down my damaged cheeks like little rain drops as I stared at her in shame and utter disbelief. Crowds of grief stricken people surrounded the car, a car which I once considered a great thing. A symbol of maturity. Pathetic. I heard the siren ringing in my ears and took my last look at her, the blood drenching me, the heartache that would forever consume me, just beginning to rear its ugly face. It was obvious what they were thinking. They were continually asking themselves, asking God, why it had been I that survived. I was asking myself the same question. I wish they knew that.
Twenty prolonged years later, I carry the same burden. I still hate myself. I still blame myself. The weekly visit sends a searing pain throughout me every time confusion takes her over and she asks me who I am. She sits in this white, grim place that she is expected to call home, staring through a small window that so violently separates her from the real world. A world that she used to love. A world that I used to love. Her emotionless stare consumes every ounce of me, she might as well be dead. She is dead, isn’t she?
It’s amazing how one moment of recklessness can destroy your life completely. Bet you would never expect anything so tragic, so disastrous to happen to you, let alone your best friend. I know I didn’t. The one who knew it all, your favorite flavor ice cream, your worst nightmare, the secrets that you thought you could never utter to another human being, you told her. We had headed down the motorway, with the vibrant, orange horizon promising us everything that we had ever imagined. I pressed down on the accelerator with a fierce urgency, the adrenalin and speed increasing with each moment. She told me to stop. I didn’t. I didn’t stop.
I sit in this god forsaken place, talking to her. We do talk, but I doubt she’s really listening. Her laugh has dissolved along with her personality, along with her beauty, along with me, for I am nothing now. An empty canvas sits in front of me, waiting for someone to color her in. She just wants some color in her life again. I cringe as the door creeks and her mother enters slowly. Her bloodshot eyes tell it all. A weary smile is flashed my way, but she still cannot bring herself to look straight at me. It’s not like I even deserve this much. She takes out an old, tattered photo album which I recognize. In front of me sit two teenage beauties with stars in their eyes, with color in their cheeks, with hope and possibility brimming out of their genuine smiles. A hot, bitter tear falls upon the photo as I begin to shake again, remembering all that we used to be.
