Using the lights of the car parked behind me, I walked to the edge of the cliff. From the light of the moon I could see the rocky shoreline some hundred-and-fifty feet or so below me. The tide was out.
How does one get over killing a child? Everyone had told me since it had happened that it wasn’t my fault. Everyone except myself, that is. They claimed I couldn’t have known that she would walk out from in front of the school-bus and under my wheels. Deep down inside somewhere I knew that they were right. But I still blamed myself.
The days were somewhat easy. There were so many things to distract me during the day. My family, friends and work colleagues all commented on how well I seemed to be doing. But they always avoided talking about the one thing that I needed to talk about. Even the doctor, when I told him how I was feeling, did nothing but offer platitudes and anti-depressants.
It was the nights that I found difficult. Because that's when I found myself alone. And with time to think. And thinking was something that was definitely not good for me. But this particular night I actually felt as though things might be mending for me.
Walking back to the car, I climbed in and sat behind the steering wheel. I depressed the clutch and selected first gear. As I started moving forward I recalled the day of the accident in my mind’s eye. I remembered the laughing face of the girl as she appeared in front of the bus - laughter that turned to alarm as she realised the danger she was in.
I depressed the accelerator.
And, as the car flew off the edge of the cliff, I simply said “Sorry.”
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