The day that I left home for college, the world seemed a little bit brighter than it had in a good while.
I graduated from high school, trying to convince myself that what I had seen happen couldn't have been real, that it was some terrible nightmare that I had made up in my drunken haze. I knew that this would never fade away like a dream. But I could hope, because it was the only thing I had.
It felt like I was holding my breath every day that passed, especially as move-in crept closer and closer. I expected the police to come knocking on my door any second to question me about the accident, but that knock never came. So I tried to give the appearance that I was enjoying my last summer at home.
I went out with my friends almost every night, ignoring the nagging feeling in my gut that said these would be the last times that I'd ever see these people again. We smoked, drank, and almost everything in between. I felt like I would be alive forever, I had so much waiting for me in just a few weeks, and all of that would be there because I had done what I had to do.
If I had admitted to killing a man and driving away, what future was there going to be for me? I wasn't a minor, I would probably go to jail, there would be no college, no job, nobody would want to associate themselves with me. I would spend some time in a dimly lit cell, alone, and then I would eventually get out and I would spend the rest of my life alone.
It didn't feel right, but I had done what was best.