Guilt By Alyson Hilbourne
I saw the dog first. It was small and black. Well maybe it was brown, and perhaps some white too, I'm not so sure these days. My memory is going.
The girl followed the dog out into the road. Her long blonde hair flying, and a flicker of red t-shirt and white trainers. The colours became a blur like a long exposure photograph. I think she was trying to catch the dog.
I braked. The tyres screamed in protest, locked and the back of the car swung round solidly. Nothing I did with the steering wheel would control it. The moments stretched out, everything in slow motion, but it was probably only seconds before the car skidded across the road, and sky, trees, lampposts and buildings flashed past the windscreen. I felt my heart sink, then with a sickening certainty there was a thump and I crashed forward and was immediately jolted backwards as the car stopped completely. It was the last thing I remember.
Sometimes I wonder what she would look like now. Ten years is a long time. Would she still have the long blonde hair or has it darkened? Would she dress in t-shirts and trainers or would smart dresses and suits be de rigueur? I'll never know.
Something keeps drawing me back to this place, to stand by the side of the road and let the memories coil around me. I don't drive now. I haven't since then. I know it wasn't my fault but guilt gnaws away at you like a dog with a bone, until it has sucked out the marrow and left you hollow and empty. It makes you restless and unable to settle down. It is a terribly heavy load to carry. I wonder if she carries the same burden, if she wakes in the night sweating and fighting down the fear. Or has she forgotten it all?
I was on my way to a meeting in Oxford. I had been driving fast, late as usual, but I hadn't been drinking. Far from it. My life was so busy I'd barely had time for meals, let alone relax over a pint or a glass of wine. The car was fine. It had been recently serviced. They found nothing wrong when they checked the mechanics. The brakes just locked with the speed I was going. I can still smell the burning rubber and hear the crunch and spattering of the gravel that had collected in the bend of the road.
People placed bouquets at the spot for a while. Sprays, single flowers, and even a teddy bear appeared. I don't know who brought them, but as the years have gone on no one remembers and the scrapes on the tree have healed over too. Other road accidents on the same stretch have taken precedence in minds of the locals.
I can’t blame them; after all, none of them knew the student from Oxford who died that day, avoiding the little girl in the red t-shirt.
Copyright Alyson Hilbourne 2012
The girl followed the dog out into the road. Her long blonde hair flying, and a flicker of red t-shirt and white trainers. The colours became a blur like a long exposure photograph. I think she was trying to catch the dog.
I braked. The tyres screamed in protest, locked and the back of the car swung round solidly. Nothing I did with the steering wheel would control it. The moments stretched out, everything in slow motion, but it was probably only seconds before the car skidded across the road, and sky, trees, lampposts and buildings flashed past the windscreen. I felt my heart sink, then with a sickening certainty there was a thump and I crashed forward and was immediately jolted backwards as the car stopped completely. It was the last thing I remember.
Sometimes I wonder what she would look like now. Ten years is a long time. Would she still have the long blonde hair or has it darkened? Would she dress in t-shirts and trainers or would smart dresses and suits be de rigueur? I'll never know.
Something keeps drawing me back to this place, to stand by the side of the road and let the memories coil around me. I don't drive now. I haven't since then. I know it wasn't my fault but guilt gnaws away at you like a dog with a bone, until it has sucked out the marrow and left you hollow and empty. It makes you restless and unable to settle down. It is a terribly heavy load to carry. I wonder if she carries the same burden, if she wakes in the night sweating and fighting down the fear. Or has she forgotten it all?
I was on my way to a meeting in Oxford. I had been driving fast, late as usual, but I hadn't been drinking. Far from it. My life was so busy I'd barely had time for meals, let alone relax over a pint or a glass of wine. The car was fine. It had been recently serviced. They found nothing wrong when they checked the mechanics. The brakes just locked with the speed I was going. I can still smell the burning rubber and hear the crunch and spattering of the gravel that had collected in the bend of the road.
People placed bouquets at the spot for a while. Sprays, single flowers, and even a teddy bear appeared. I don't know who brought them, but as the years have gone on no one remembers and the scrapes on the tree have healed over too. Other road accidents on the same stretch have taken precedence in minds of the locals.
I can’t blame them; after all, none of them knew the student from Oxford who died that day, avoiding the little girl in the red t-shirt.
Copyright Alyson Hilbourne 2012
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