Survivor's Guilt

No one will ever know.

They could, and they probably should, but they won't. When the police asked me if I knew what had caused her to lose control of the car, I said I didn't. I said she must have gotten distracted, or there had been a mechanical failure, or whatever. And they believed me.

They shouldn't have believed me. I caused her to lose control of the car, and now she's gone, and I'm still here.

It feels like her mother knows. They took her away in the hospital because she started shouting, "It should've been you! It should've been you!" at me.

If only I had been able to keep my mouth shut. If only I wasn't so goddamn stubborn.

I refuse to let myself fall apart. Somehow it feels like if I start crying, they'll figure out that it was my fault. The rational part of me knows that they'd understand; that I was just in a car accident and the love of my life my best friend is dead and I'm supposed to be mourning. The rest of me is really paranoid and doesn't care.

When I mourn, I'll do it in private. Not when I have a nurse coming in every five minutes to make sure that I'm still alive. At least she doesn't talk to me every time now.

I shouldn't have snapped at her, but if she kept pushing me to talk about my feelings, I was going to. And I didn't want that. She is overly cautious with me now, as if she knows how close to the edge I am.

"Maura," a voice laced in false concern calls me, "I'm so sorry, darling."

I don't want my mother to be here. If I wasn't already guilty, she'd make me feel like I was. "Thanks," I manage to croak, coughing afterward. They told me I shouldn't talk to much, that breathing was going to be difficult for a while with my fractured ribs. They were right. It stung like a bitch - and I deserved it. I deserve a lot more.

"Do you need anything?" I can't tell if it's the cautious nurse or my mother, but the answer is no either way. I don't need anything that they can get me. I need a time machine and a brain that functions a lot better than the one that I have now.

I start to fall asleep, and the nurse stops me. She says that the concussion makes it unsafe for me to sleep for a little while. I consider asking them to put me in a coma.

This is my fault.

And no one else knows. There's no one blaming me, cursing me, hating me for what I've done like there should be, except maybe her mother. I should be dead, not her.

I should be dead, not her. The words are on a loop in my mind, so when my mother says goodbye, I don't really hear her and I say it out loud instead. Mother leaves, and the nurse brings in another doctor.

He tells me that what I'm feeling is natural; that everyone blames themselves after an accident like this. He sets an appointment with me for tomorrow.

I won't open up to him. I never opened up to any of the doctors that I went to, and that was before I was responsible for someone else's death.

I'll do what I need to do to get out of this hospital as fast as I can. I will do nothing more, and nothing less.

After he leaves, the nurse tells me that it's safe for me to sleep, and that I should try and get some rest. Secretly, I think she's hoping I'll die. Frankly, I don't care. She's got every right.

I close my eyes, and I see her. I see her face reacting to the last words I said to her. I see her face, bloody and cradled in my hands. I see her face being covered with a white sheet as they cart me away in the ambulance.

I see her ghost, hating me for what I've done.