It all happened so fast. I slammed on the brakes, but there just wasn't time. The car hit the little boy and he landed on the hood, then fell down, then got up and ran off. His mother ran across the street and picked him up.
I pulled over into the Dunkin' Donuts parking lot. We were all hysterical. Luckily the couple in the car next to me saw what happened and pulled over too. They were the only calm ones in the bunch.
The little boy was okay. He just had a skinned knee and elbow. By the end of talking to the police and all he was fine, running around excitedly and telling me it was all right.
Everyone told me it wasn't my fault. Intellectually, I understand this and even agree with it. But there's a part of me that can't get past it. What kind of monster hits a child with a car? Me, apparently.
After it was all over, I just felt so damn alone. When I had my wreck in February 2001, adric and I were dating and he and his parents were terrific. He took me to the emergency room and held my hand, then his parents insisted I come over for the night so I wouldn't be alone. This time, I just wanted a shoulder to cry on, but there was none to be had in the vicinity. atomicnumber51's in San Francisco, [Bad username: scarcrest>'s in Jackson, <lj user=]'s in Nashville, gamgee's in Austin, 10dimensions and alison_says are way the hell out in Smyrna, I couldn't get ptwarhol on the phone and I wasn't even sure if alanator was back from his trip yet.
It was just really not a good night. But I keep telling myself that it could have been so much worse...