I’m awoken by the sickening crunch of metal slamming into metal and glass shattering, just outside my bedroom door.
Then, silence.
I open my eyes and sit up.
The room is filled with a faint black fog.
I climb off the bed and listen at the door. There’s a faint noise on the other side.
… tick … tick … tick … tick …
I open the door and walk through.
The black fog blankets the intersection. The pavement is littered in broken glass and bits of metal. Small wisps of steam and smoke escape from the crumpled hood of the pickup truck that slammed into our car. The force of the impact has melded the two vehicles together into one disfigured, twisted heap.
The traffic light above the intersection blinks red.
… tick … tick … tick … tick …
The black fog seems to guide me over to the wreckage. The bits of glass puncture my bare feet as I walk across the pavement, but I don’t feel it.
I can’t see inside the truck, but I know what’s in there: the body of the driver, pressed against the steering wheel.
I don’t want this. I don’t want to see this, but the black fog urges me forward.
I get closer to the car.
Through the remains of the shattered window, I see Nicole’s mangled, decimated body. Her head is twisted at an unnatural angle. Her face is covered in blood. Her eyes are open. They stare straight ahead but see nothing.
Why? Why did this have to be the last image I have of her? It’s the image that has been burned into my mind: Nicole, my wife, the woman I loved, the mother of our child, broken, lifeless, grotesque. After I regained consciousness moments after the accident, I saw her and screamed, pleaded with her to wake up, knowing it was useless. Why did this have to be how I remember her? It’s the cruelest trick, added to the cruelest joke of being hit by a drunk driver.
I look past Nicole’s mauled body to the back seat.
Caitlyn.
She’s strapped in by her seatbelt, her body laying back. Like Nicole, her head is at a nauseating angle. Her eyes are open. Lifeless.
No. No. It wasn’t like this.
She was alive. I tried to help her. She was breathing but I couldn’t touch her because I was afraid that if she had a spinal injury, I would paralyze her. So, I had to sit there, pleading, begging her to wake up. Those minutes between when I called 9-1-1 until the ambulance arrived were an eternity. I couldn’t touch my daughter. I couldn’t do anything. The EMTs had to drag me away screaming towards the ambulance as they began cutting into the door. Caitlyn was alive.
But now, she’s dead in the back seat.
It wasn’t like this!
“Caitlyn?!” I scream and frantically try to open the crushed door. The handle won’t budge. Through the remains of the window, I grab the edge of the door and pull. The shards of glass slice into my hand and work their way under my fingernails.
I grunt, curse, and scream.
“Caitlyn! Somebody help me, please!”
In between my efforts, there’s a faint whisper.
“It’s your fault …”
I stop and peer into the black fog. A thin layer of snow lies on the ground among the black trees, but I don’t see anyone.
“It’s your fault …” the whisper says again, somewhere near me.
“Why didn’t you see the truck? It’s your fault …”
I slowly turn back to the wreckage.
Nicole’s eyes stare lifelessly in front of her but her lips move. “It’s your fault …”
“No … No … Nicole … Please … I’m sorry.”
The rest of her body remains motionless except her lips. “It’s your fault … Why did you let this happen?”
“Nicole. I didn’t see—”
“It’s your fault …”
Her whispers grow louder. Her voice is accusatory, sad, and terrified, all at once.
“It’s your fault … It’s your fault … You did this … You killed me … You killed us …”
“Stop! Please!”
Hot tears begin stinging my eyes.
“It’s your fault. It’s your fault. It’s your fault—”
“Nicole, I love you. Please, please, stop it …”
Her voice and lips tremble, but her eyes and body remain lifeless.
“It’s your fault. It’s your fault. It’s your fault.”
I can’t take this. I turn away from the accident but I still hear her.
“Why, Daniel? Why did you let this happen to us?”
The door to my bedroom is sitting there, just off the road. The fog parts, clearing a path for me.
“It’s your fault. It’s your fault. It’s your fault.”
Her voice follows like she’s walking right behind me.
The doorknob feels like ice in my hand as I twist it open. I step into my bedroom and close the door behind me.
The black fog blankets the floor.
I can still hear Nicole’s voice, as if she’s standing just on the other side of the door.
“It’s your fault. It’s your fault. It’s your fault.”
I crawl back into bed.
Her voice trails away to nothing.
I lie there in the silence of the room.
Suddenly, the fog comes crashing into me. It races from every part of the room and every corner of the house. It enters my body through the pores of my skin, turning my blood into an icy, black sludge. I feel nauseous, like I’m rotting from the inside and I’ll never be clean again.
Nicole’s face appears right in front of me; not the mangled image I’ve just seen in the car, but the concerned, fearful Nicole I saw through the window of the kitchen earlier today.
“Daniel, wake up!”
*
My eyes fly open.
I sit up in my bed.
There’s no fog or the voice of Nicole, accusing me through the door. It’s just a room but the tears on my cheeks and the thudding of my heart are very real.
I swing my feet off the side of the bed.
I’ve never experienced anything like that. Yes, somewhere deep inside, I’ve always felt like it was my fault. I should have seen the truck. I should have made sure. I’ve gone over all the things I could have done differently, but to see that, to hear Nicole …
I’m not going back to sleep. No way. Not after that. I need out of this room. I need some television; something to erase what I’ve just seen.
I get up and go to the door.
I grab the knob but stop, fearful of what might be on the other side.
I twist the knob and pull the door open.
There’s no intersection. No wreckage. No fog. No Nicole. Just an empty hallway.
I quickly go back to the bed and grab my pillow.
For the second time tonight, I go back down the stairs to the living room.
I turn on the lamp and go to the open box of Blu-ray discs sitting on the floor next to the television. I select a title, one that is sure to help clear my head, and pop it into the player. I stretch out on the couch, pop the pillow under my head, and pull the throw blanket on top of me.
The movie starts and I’m asleep in five minutes.