The Blame Game

I looked down at her in that bed, connected to machines that beep and breathe and tell the doctors what they call ‘her vitals’; “I put her there” is all that I could think.

If only I had been more careful, if only I had been paying more attention, if…

I felt Louise’s arm around my shoulder and she squeezed me in that way that says “it’s ok, I’m here”. I let my head fall onto her shoulder and closed my eyes, hoping that I would wake from this horrible nightmare when I opened them again.

She led me out into the corridor and sat me down on one of those moulded plastic chairs designed for ease of storage and economy of production as the important driving forces; comfort being almost ignored. A hot, black coffee appeared in my hands, and then she sat beside me and locked her eyes onto my face.

“My daughter would never blame you for this, and I don’t either, so please stop blaming yourself. It was an accident; no blame.”

I wanted to believe her, but my Sara was almost dead, and I was not, and I was driving.

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