I never even attempted to call my mother through all of it. I was too depressed to call anyone at all. And how could I call my friends back home and tell them what I’d done?
I was ashamed and sad, and as a result of that, no one in my life before I met you knew what I had done. And since you were gone, and your entire family hated me, I had no visitors.
They appointed me a lawyer, but I had no one to post bail. I didn’t even have anywhere to go if I could have posted bail. I found comfort being there in that jail cell, so I didn’t mind it. If I couldn’t be with you in your car, the only place I wanted to be was alone in that cell where I could refuse to eat the food they gave me and hopefully, eventually, my heart would stop beating like I thought yours had that night.
Turns out, your heart was still beating. It was just your arm that had died. I could go into more gruesome details about how it was so horribly crushed and mangled during the wreck that the blood flow was completely cut off and that’s why I touched you and thought you were dead, and how, despite all that, you still somehow woke up and got out of the car and tried to get the help I never brought back to you.
I would have realized that if only I would have stayed with you longer, or tried harder. If I wouldn’t have panicked and ran and allowed the adrenaline to pump through me to the point that I wasn’t even functioning within the borders of reality.
If I could have been as calm as you always were, you’d still be alive. We’d probably be raising the daughter together that you never even knew we made. We’d probably have two kids by now, or even three, and I’d more than likely be a teacher, or a nurse, or a writer, or whatever you would have undoubtedly given me the strength to realize I could be.
My God, I miss you.
I miss you so much, even if it never showed in my eyes in a way anyone would have been satisfied with. I sometimes wonder if my mental state played a hand in my sentencing. I was empty inside, and I’m sure that emptiness showed in my eyes any time I had to face someone.
I didn’t even care about the first court hearing two weeks after you died. The lawyer told me we would fight it—that all I had to do was plead not guilty and he would prove that I wasn’t of sound mind that night and that my actions weren’t intentional and that I was very, very, very, very, very, very remorseful.
But I didn’t care what the lawyer suggested. I wanted to go to prison. I didn’t want to go back out in the world where I would have to look at cars again, or gravel roads, or hear Coldplay on the radio, or think about all the things I’d have to do without you.
Looking back on it now, I realize I was in a deep and dangerous state of depression, but I don’t think anyone noticed, or maybe there was just no one who cared. Everyone was #TeamScotty, like we were never even on the same team. Everyone wanted justice, and sadly, justice and empathy couldn’t both fit inside that courtroom.
But what’s funny is I was on their side. I wanted justice for them. I empathized with them. With your mother, with your father, with all the people in your life who were packed inside that courtroom.
I pleaded guilty, to my lawyer’s dismay. I had to. When they started talking about what you went through after I ran away from you that night, I knew I would rather die than sit through a trial and listen to the details. It was all too gruesome, like I was living some horror story, and not my own life.
I’m sorry, Scotty.
I tuned it all out somehow by just repeating that phrase over and over in my head. I’m sorry, Scotty. I’m sorry, Scotty. I’m sorry, Scotty.
They scheduled another court date for sentencing, and it was sometime between those two court dates that I realized I hadn’t had my period in a while. I thought my cycle was messed up, so I didn’t mention it to anyone. Had I known I was growing a part of you inside me sooner, I’m positive I would have found the will to go to trial and fight for myself. Fight for our daughter.
When the sentencing date came, I tried not to listen as your mother read her victim impact statement, but every word she spoke is still engraved in my bones.
I kept thinking about what you told me as you were carrying me up the stairs on your back that night in her house—about how they wanted more kids, but you were their miracle baby.
That’s all I could think of in that moment. I had killed their miracle baby, and now they had no one, and it was all my fault.
I had planned to give an allocution statement, but I was too weak and too broken, so when it came time for me to stand up and speak, I couldn’t. Physically, emotionally, mentally. I was stuck in that chair, but I tried to stand. My lawyer grabbed my arm to make sure I didn’t collapse, and then I think he might have read something out loud for me, I don’t know. I’m still not clear on what happened in the courtroom that day, because that day was so much like that night. A nightmare that I was somehow watching play out from a distance.