I live with the guilt to this day and for the rest of my life. And it’s this guilt that will hold me back from ever letting a drop of alcohol pass these lips of mine. For that bitter taste of alcohol rushes back the memory of that one August night that I took my best friend’s life.
It was an obnoxiously hot night, one where all you wanted to do was lay on the couch and watch TV with a fan set on ‘high’ directed toward your sprawled out body. But this was a Saturday night, and we - the two partiers of our circle of buddies - weren’t known to waste a perfectly good Saturday night watching Jay Leno. The night was young, we were both over 21, and there were clubs in town that just begged for us to be there. We got in the car and went.
And we went fast. Top down, racing down the freeway. And feeling exactly that ... free. Simple, yet hard to come by. And upon entering the club, the air was thick and smoky and dim. Fun, party, drink. Those were the only things on our mind. And we did just that.
If only we hadn’t. If only I hadn’t. If I could turn back time ... if I could turn back the clocks, turn back the calendars, make it that Saturday night once more... I would have done things differently. I would have stayed home. I would have watched Jay Leno. Hell, I would have watched it for the rest of the Saturdays of my life. If only I could go back.
It’s too late now. Too late to do anything but wallow in my sorrow, and wish. Wish that things had been done differently. That I had thought differently. That the roles could have even been reversed. Anything was better than how things had ended up.
Stupid Saturday night. Stupid clubs. Stupid alcohol. Stupid fucking me.
Oh, God. The regret I feel. God, if only one thing had been different! Just one thing had been done differently, it wouldn’t have happened this way! He wouldn’t be dead! I wouldn’t be here, to be left by myself... with nothing to do but regret everything...
Everything.
And I can’t stop crying. Just can’t stop. He tried to get me out of the car. He warned me; I wasn’t sober enough to drive myself home. He was. I didn’t listen ... wouldn’t hear it.
And then ... he trusted me. Shouldn’t he have been able to fucking trust me? He stepped in front of the car so that I couldn’t go anywhere. With the building behind me and him in front of me, I shouldn’t have gone anywhere! But I did. I put the car in drive.
And at his funeral, all I did was say sorry. That was all I could think to do. But shouldn’t there have been something more that I could have done? This man was laying in a coffin because of me ... lifeless and cold and ... dead. And I couldn’t say anything more than that I was fucking sorry?! Sorry that he is no longer living, no longer breathing ... surely there was something more to be said than ‘I’m sorry’!
But now I scream it! My thoughts of slumber bring me back to that night, where I relive the memory. I wake up in cold sweats, and I tell the Lord, I tell my best friend, I tell anyone who cares to hear me, that I’m sorry!
I’m sorry...
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