I flipped that little truck over and over again, five to six times, before we finally ended upside down on the roof and slid another fifty yards or so down the highway, leaving a half mile of debris strewn behind us. I can still, to this day, hear the sickening sound of metal being twisted to its capacity, taste the blood welling into my mouth, and smell the putrid odor of hot oil and burning paint.
But the sound I remember the loudest, the one that brings me to my knees, was the terrifying, deafening silence that followed, when all the other noise stopped. Because in that moment, I knew he was gone.
And it was my fault. I had killed him.
It was November 24th, 2000—just another Thanksgiving morning. It was also the day I died. But wait, let’s backtrack a bit.
Two months earlier I was just living my life, doing whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, with whomever I wanted. I was 24, single(ish) with suitors out the wazoo, making really good money, and the owner of my very own farmhouse on four acres in a quaint, tiny little town called Whitewater, KS.
If you asked me back then, I would have told you I was doing well. Looking back, I would tell you my life was full, but my heart was a bitter and cold abyss.
That ‘me’ was the product of years of abuse at the hands of those very people who should have loved me and protected me with their lives. I didn’t care very deeply about anything or anyone but me. I avoided deep emotional…
View original post 3,061 more words