A Twisted Twist of Fate
I didn’t mean to—hit her, that is. But hit her I did. My alcohol-intemperance hands pathetically showed no greater grip than melting candles. Although the breathalyser showed an intoxication level three times greater than the legal limit, my mind sobered up the moment I felt that sickening crunch. That is the only way I can describe the sound when the ton of motorised metal made contact with frightened flesh. It wasn’t a boom. It wasn’t a bump. It wasn’t a thud. It was a cold, hard, bone-breaking crunch. Upon impact my stomach took a hopeful punch at the steering wheel, and lost. My digested curry ejected into the foot well, ruining my day-old shoes.
I sat as stationary as my vehicle for a sixty-second hour trying to fathom out whether I should call the police or drive off. I chose the former, or the former chose me, or fate chose the former. Within five minutes emergency vehicles descended and I breathed into the plastic tell-all before the blues-and-twos chariot whisked me away in silver bracelets.
And here I am now, six months on, facing my victim. She is pale and drawn. Nothing like her former self. My lawyer told me it was becoming more common for drink-drivers to apologise to their victims. I prayed for that day. I would have sold my soul for the opportunity. What else could I do knowing one day I would have to repent all of my sins? The prosecutor felt dead-set against the idea of meeting up with my victim’s family, as they had expressed their desire for me not to be allowed with a mile of their street. Their young, spritely daughter, a once-aspiring doctor, would never live the life she had desired from an early age. All it took to steal her four years’ worth of medical study was three gin and tonics and five neat vodkas. No apology was going to fix the damage, or erase the impending prosecution.
There is no private room supervised by a mediator. We have no family member waiting in a car when one decides enough is enough. No. It is simply just my victim and me. She hasn’t spoken much apart from ask, ‘Why?’ That is a question I feel I can never answer. Sure, I can ask myself why I chose to go out that night. Why I chose to drink alcohol. Why I chose to drive home. But I cannot answer why I hit her. I apologise an infinite amount of times. My victim, Susie, holds a blank expression, as if the apology isn’t directed at her; she feels no effect. Her tone is one of numbness, more chilling than the fear of the accident that night. I sense void in the pits of her gaping, tunnelled pupils. I instinctively go to place my hand on hers but she pulls away in shame. This time I apologise for invading her space. She gazes ahead.
The atmosphere lends further credence to the chilly physical temperature yet Susie, wearing a thin, lacy dress, does not shiver. I scrutinise her arms for signs of goose bumps but there is only a pale sheath of silky skin. In contrast, my heart is fighting to stave off the purple shade invading my extremities. I ask her what it is like. I wish I hadn’t. She doesn’t shout or even look at me. She simply states the answers I seek will never be given. The incident is unforgiven. She says it is no longer up to her. That night took away her capacity to think logically. She tells me I have to go. That she has to go. She has one final thing to tell me. ‘I dated your brother a while back,’ she says. I think back. I don’t remember. I will ask my parents, once I get home. I can’t ask my brother as he passed away six months ago. The day of his burial was the night I decided to numb my grief with alcohol. I couldn’t accept he had taken his own life over a woman who ended their relationship after only three dates. ‘I am only aware of three of my brother’s girlfriends,’ I tell her. ‘Two are still my friends and the other one was named—’
‘Rosie,’ says my victim. ‘Your brother liked to call me ‘‘Rosie.’’’
She stands up and walks to where a bed of flowers are amply scattered. A red rose is engraved by her name etched in the ceramic monument that rests next to my brother’s. . .