I killed somebody’ best friend. She ran out onto the street, wailing and screaming “Somebody save him! Anybody!” The desperation and grief so tangible in her voice underscored my absolute powerlessness. I wasn’t God, and all of my counseling wouldn’t erase that to her, I was the murderer.
I offered her a blanket, a formality that was supposed to provide some sense of dignity in death but probably only emphasized the finality of it all. She continued to cry for help. By this time, a crowd had formed around a girl, her dead friend, and a boy.
“He’s dead. I’m sorry,” someone said. Pause, sniffle. “I’m a nurse”. You didn’t have to be a nurse to know that when someone’s eyeball is hanging half out of its socket, with blood gushing out of a crushed skull, that there’s nothing anyone can do. I would have told her that I was sorry, but it wouldn’t have brought him back to life. I wasn’t sorry. I wasn’t sorry that her friend ran into the street, right in front of my car. I wasn’t sorry that I didn’t swerve into another person. But I was sorry that she lost her best friend.
I killed somebody’s dog.