A Hit And Run

It is interesting. The thud sounded human.

It could have been a dear or a fox in the wilderness, but something about the vibration screamed a biological bond. I’d had a few, and I mean that. Maybe, six or seven units. I wasn’t speeding either, but everyone ignored that.

I pulled over about one hundred metres from the collision. Close enough to view but far enough to hide. A little peek at my doing. He looked like a speed bump. My breath made a halo above my head that quickly abandoned me. Truth be told, my heart was eerily calm. It must have been the whiskey. Too tipsy to form an appropriate response.

The speed bump hadn’t moved, and neither did I. At this point, I’ve left my car. What the fuck was he doing out here at this time! Couldn’t tell if I was cold or having a panic attack or both. Regardless, my gloves helped. Time kept going. The ever-present overbearing smothering of a ticking watch. Shut up.

It felt like I could take one giant step and be there by the man’s side for his last moments. One stretch, and I could be looking down on him. But no. I never wanted to see his face, and since that day, I still refuse. I can’t be a psychopath, right? I seem to care too much to be a psychopath. But I still stood there doing nothing. No tears, the shaking had stopped, and I was warming up.

I light a cigarette. Smoke chasing the halo, come back to me. Sending up reinforcements with every puff, I want my soul to be forcibly returned. It is mine. If I could look down on myself, I would.

I built up the courage and began walking. Around twenty metres from the man was close enough. Nobody should look like that, and nobody should be made to look like that.

I remember reading a few stories about trauma, how it sometimes takes a while to feel real. Years can go by before you fully digest your horror. In the weeks proceeding the event, I like to think that I came to terms with my spiritual robbery. I took the week off work; my schedule was packed, though. Thirty minutes peering out of the living room curtains before a quick break in the bathroom washing my face. Rinse and repeat.

I can’t remember the excuse I gave my boss, though. My perspective had dwindled, brought down to the simplest equation. Me + alcohol = death. Me + alcohol = amnesia. Me - alcohol = pain.

He was a teacher. The man I killed. Seeing his family in tears as I was driven to the prison was perfect. Me, hidden behind tinted windows observing the spawn of my cancer. Is this justice? When I leave this place, will I have done my time? Repented. Forgiven. Cured?

Cheers