You stare at the damages wreck of a car in front of you. Smashed and dented, scratched beyond repair. Why would you want to repair it? What just happened begins to sink in.
All you can remember is driving, laughing hysterically with Stacey, trying to ignore the stench of beer on her breath and on yours. Then swerving rapidly to avoid other drivers. Losing control over the breaks, over the steering wheel, over the car. Spinning round and round in wobbly circles, the distressed sound of bleating horns filling the air. The disgusting stench of burning rubber and the sight of searing, red-hot sparks. Walls of the tunnel coming closer and then...
Then you can’t re-call. It seems to be darkness and after that the wailing sound of sirens. Firemen sawing a square in the roof, lifting out Stacey’s limp body. Paler then before, drained of energy, almost lifeless. Medical people swarming forward and loading her into the back of the green and yellow checked ambulance along with you. One of them being kind and telling you it will be alright. All you do is stare at Stacey.
What had happened? You had obviously crashed, but why? Were you that drunk? Authorities’ trying to ask you questions whilst more medical people searching you for injuries. They seemed to discover large gashes on the backs of your legs, but nothing broken. Maybe a slight fracture of the wrist. Nothing they couldn’t fix.
But could they fix Stacey? Clearly not. They were crowded round her and you couldn’t see what they were doing. You didn’t like that, not being able to see what they were doing to Stacey. You knew they were helping, but something inside you wants to yell. Scream, push them out the way and check her. Check she’s alright. But the steady flow of questions and checking hands stop you.
Next is the hospital, shining white, too clean and smelling of disinfectant. The doctors explaining what happened to Stacey and how they were sorry for your loss. Why were they sorry? They didn’t know her! You were sorry. You’d been the one getting drunk, you’d been the one driving, and you’d been the one that had killed her.
Next the doctors check everything with you medically and the nurses serve you your lunch. You refused to eat anything and lay back against the pillow, thinking of Stacey. Stacey, Stacey, Stacey. Your late daughter. The one you killed.