We never cook anymore, not since the accident. The smell of homemade bread has not trickled through the air; the aroma of a roasted chicken has not permeated the kitchen since. Instead a constant flow of pre-cooked, pre-made meals invades my house every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday; a stockpile “reward” for the hardship we have endured, a consolation prize to ease the grief of the accident, to ease the hole left by death.

No, instead of the soft smells of bread, the stench of death has plagued my house, overriding all competition. My mother, once a resolute and determined 5’10’’, seems to have shrunk since the accident, folding up until she resembled nothing more than a shivering lump, too afraid of losing me to ever relax. Walking through the town, people crossed the street to offer condolences, to make their insincere apologies, to absorb my obvious luck by a touch on the shoulder. For I was the lucky one, the one who got to live, who got to walk away relatively unhurt, they whispered to one another. Unhurt, huh? If only they could see the scars I carry, imprinted on my mind instead of upon my unblemished skin. If only they could witness the nights I woke up screaming, sweating, shaking from the ghosts walking among my dreams.

For my dreams are consumed by the force of my present grief, as well as my past. All the hurt I hid inside seeps into my dreams; all the sorrow from the past escapes at night. Constantly reliving this accident, as well as one that had occurred in my past, my closed eyes stream with tears every night. I wake up every morning with red and swollen and puffy circles, markers of my grief-filled dreams. No one understands my sorrow; no one knows how I blame myself for both accidents. All the town sees is a boy, saddened by the loss of his best friend, angered by the reckless driving of another. I let them see what they want to see.

And last night, as I choked down a brown gloopy paste concocted by a neighbor to assuage their own guilt, I grumbled in my head about everyone’s lack of culinary skills. But I guess that’s the price I have to pay for being one still alive. For being a constant reminder of loss, a symbol of hope, an emblem of resilience.

I didn’t receive anyone’s pity, anyone’s sorrow for the tragedy that robbed me of my son, Noah.

I got the devastating phone call while at work. I’m an EMT in my small town, which is next to a couple large cities in the Midwest, so my team and I are adept at dealing with tragedies and disasters from all over the area. As the first response to many major car accidents, this call seemed routine as we packed our stuff up and prepared to meet the tragedy that definitely awaited us. I had no idea that I had prepared to see my son’s body lying there motionless, surrounded by broken glass and crushed metal. Two boys dead: one alive. I had no idea that only one boy out of three had survived the wreckage, and that I would not get any sympathy for my son’s death.

Instead, the people of my small town attacked me with all their anger, their sorrow, their grief. They were looking for someone to blame for the tragedy, and they chose my son. They chose my son. My son, the victim. My son, the sweet boy with the very bright future. The newspapers said that an eyewitness account proved that my son was responsible; someone had seen him driving straight at the other two boys and said he had not tried swerving to avoid hitting the other car. I was stunned. Not only was my son dead, but these people had the audacity to presume that my son, my Noah, had purposely caused this accident. They said he was suicidal. They said he wanted to kill himself and the other two boys, over some bullying or something. But I knew better.

Refusing to listen to the malicious whispers following me as I went to the grocery store, the bank, and even to Noah’s school to collect his remaining belongings, I shrouded my eyes behind dark sunglasses, concealing all my pain and all my doubt. Dazed with sorrow, I performed these tasks with an almost mechanical mindset, checking off each item on my mental list as if it had no meaning: collect my dead son’s books, check, avoid parking lot where he was killed, check, arrange funeral for aforementioned son, check.


The funeral came and went, sparsely populated by nosy neighbors and curious co-workers. Concealing my sorrow, I graciously hosted every visitor, serving them refreshments while my mind shouted angry nonsense at these intruders, most of whom had never cared about us until now, until my son was dead, until it was too late.

But even as I buried my son, placed him in a grave, another boy was walking around, going to school, being kissed by his mother, basically unharmed by the same power that had killed Noah. As an EMT, I’d seen firsthand the destruction and force of a tornado, how it could rip through a town destroying one house, while leaving the neighboring structure untouched. I’d witnessed the fencing on a farm be torn into the air, while the cows it surrounded stood, unperturbed, not 100 feet away. This reminded me of that: Max living while Noah and the other boy, Jason, were dead. I could not make sense of that in my mind; how could my son die inches away from another boy who survived with no injury? These thoughts racked my body; they consumed me entirely.

Lying in bed the night after I learned the news, I could not stop my mind from scrambling around. All I saw, staring up at the ceiling, was my son’s body, battered and destroyed by the car accident that had taken his life. All I saw was the boy who lived, Max, staring at me, mocking my sadness with every breath he took. An intense, smoldering hatred burned inside me, my mind instinctively blaming him. But I knew I could not think like that, could not blame an innocent boy for escaping with his life. I took a deep breath and pushed those angry thoughts to the back of my mind, preparing myself for the lifetime of sleepless nights that were to come.

Craning my neck to look upwards, my father’s warm face smiled down at me as he passed me his toolbox. Looking around, I could see that we were in his car mechanic shop with mounds of rusty, decrepit cars strewn all over the place. My father was examining each car, determining the source of its problem, all the while smiling at me. I watched, as each car he fixed with the toolbox seemed to straighten out and remold into pristine cars. Crumpled up blocks sprang back to life as shiny new cars; scratches seemed to reverse themselves as dents popped back out to create a smooth exterior. After watching this incredible display, my father passed the toolbox over to me with a nod of love. Grasping the tools in my hand, I reached out to touch the cars, only to see each one shrink back at my touch. As I placed my hand on each of the refurbished cars, they all returned to their former states, each one once again becoming rusty and lifeless. Watching the destruction unfold, I could not believe that I had caused such damage with my two hands. Sobbing, I realized I could not fix any of the cars; I could only break them down. I reached out for my father but he, too, drew back from my touch. He slowly faded away, leaving me with nothing but the burn of his sorrowful eyes, which I felt imprinted upon my heart.

I woke up then, shaking, shivering. Tangled in my sheets, I attempted to free myself from the blankets as well as from the awful nightmare I had just experienced. Realizing my futile attempts at escape were not working, I gave up and curled into a ball, crying. The memories came then: memories of my father, of the accident, of my life before his death. I cried for my father, for my childhood’s abrupt end, for the time cut short between us. I cried for the more recent accident, for Jason and for his family, their lives changed forever due to one stupid action. I cried for Noah, for his mom, for the secret that must stay hidden. Finally, I cried for myself, for being the one who had to continuously suffer through the lies and guilt that I had brought upon myself.

Shaking my head, trying to detach my pain, my thoughts crept towards the box hidden at the bottom of my closet. My breath came in short gasps. My hands and feet were freezing as my face grew hotter and hotter. Tears welled up in my eyes as images from the accident projected themselves into my mind. I lay in bed, with the ghosts of my past circling all around me, unable to move my limbs, wracked with my pain and guilt. I stared into the blackness, hoping to shroud my memories in the cover of sleep. I lay there until it turned light outside, until the birds began their chirping outside my window. I lay there until I felt in control of my mind again, until I could breathe again. I didn’t feel like I could face another day of false consolations and the curiosity that inevitably followed, but I dragged myself out of bed, preparing for another day.

I couldn’t come to terms with his death. I couldn’t believe he was gone. I would walk around the house in a daze, expecting the door to be pulled open at any moment, expecting his bed to miraculously be filled the next time I passed his room.

For weeks after my son’s death, I meticulously scoured the house, cleaning up and organizing everything; from the bathroom to the forgotten pile of junk in the corner of the garage, nothing escaped my frantic scrubbing. I think I believed that if my home was spotless and neat, then I would somehow be rewarded by the return of my son. In my mind, warped by grief and sorrow, I thought that the loss of his life was a punishment for something I had done, something I needed to fix.


Sorting through mementos of my past life, I came across a photo album, faded and dusty, buried under a pile of junk. Smoothing the wrinkled cover, I opened the album up and let the memories wash over me. Flipping past pages of me as a baby, of my parents, of my high school then college, graduation, I turned to a page at random. And then there he was, blue eyes staring back at me from a smiling face.


Entranced by the photo of my son, I drank in the sunny picture and tried to remember when it was taken. Only about two years old, Noah’s sandy arm waved out at me from his position inside the dusty sandbox. His jet-black hair flopping in front of his face, I could recall the feeling of holding him, how weightless he seemed. We often joked about his skinniness as a little kid, but as he grew older his weight became a sore spot, a constant source of teasing by his peers. In the background I could see my ex-husband, Kevin, smiling at someone behind the camera, presumably me. All I remember about that day is the sun and the light and how we all seemed so happy. I now realized that the happiness we felt did not last long. His dad left soon after Noah turned three, unable to handle the messiness and disorder created by a child.


I lovingly touched his face, frozen forever in this blissful moment, and still could not believe I would never again hear his laugh, never again listen to his voice, never again see his eyes, sparkling with a passion lying just below the surface.

After Kevin left I refused to recognize the empty space he left behind, filling the empty rooms instead with hobbies and love for my son. Kevin was quiet and obsessively organized: burning with an intense passion I never imagined could exist within such a man. He gave that intensity to Noah; when my son would tell me about his latest experiment, hands waving all around, voice quivering with his excitement, I recognized the half in him that belonged to my ex-husband. Now that he was gone, I had no one. Now I was all alone in a house that was too big for me, too empty.

Unsure of how I could continue on, facing a forever of sorrow-filled days like this one, I closed the photo album and sat in the garage, sobbing, for hours.

I struggled through day after day, constantly feeling like I was wading through quicksand; I kept expecting the bottom to drop from beneath me. I went through the everyday motions in a daze, refusing to speak to anyone unless I was required to. School was the hardest.

Around every corner I saw Jason; behind every locker lurked Noah. Their shadows haunted me constantly; I heard their footsteps walking next to me when no one was around. I missed Jason terribly. There was a huge empty space next to me, recognized by the vacant chair in math class, by the removal of his name after mine on the attendance sheet. And deep inside was this pit of sadness for Noah consuming everything; I could never express the fact that I felt sorry for a boy who was thought to have almost killed me.

Discussing my feelings with anyone was not an option. The teachers all just whispered to each other, occasionally trying to get me to open up, but I refused. The kids at school avoided me, when they weren’t trying to hear the gory details of my accident. Throughout it all I was alone, encountering every day with a heavy heart.

I wasn’t dead. But I often wished I was.

Every night went the same way. Staring, my mind as blank as the empty wall I leaned against, I did nothing. I felt nothing, only numbness. Until one night, it changed. Suddenly, I was assaulted by the details from the accident and my son’s dead body; all the things I had worked so hard to bury resurfaced in my mind, torturing me in the dead of night.

Squeezing my eyes shut, determined to block out the awful images, the haunting what ifs, I could still picture his body as clearly as if it was imprinted on my eyelids. Giving up on the impossibility of sleep, I pulled on some shorts and a t-shirt, grabbing my sneakers as I headed out. I went to do what I always do when overwhelmed: go for a run.

My sneakers pounded the pavement as I ran down the street, attempting to leave behind the dreadful images stamped on my mind. I ran hard, furiously pushing myself until I could go no farther. Collapsing on the sidewalk, I looked around to see where my grief-fueled feet had taken me. I was outside Al’s Old-Fashioned Diner, the chrome and fluorescent lighting beaming out at me through the darkness surrounding me. Gasping for breath, uncertain whether my lack of air was due to my sorrow or simply from the relentless run, I pulled myself up the steps and just gazed in the window.

The neon sign was blinking open, open, open, as I tentatively cracked open the door and tiptoed inside. Although I had lived in the town for over 15 years, I had never once been inside this diner, for some reason or another. Walking into the diner, I was surrounded by the comforting aroma of fresh coffee and baked bread, even at this time of the night. A man, presumably Al himself, was standing behind a black and silver counter, wiping down the top with a washed-out rag. He greeted me with a nod and a smile, politely not mentioning my ragged appearance. I sank down into a red leather booth, laid my head down on the polished table and just cried.

As the days and weeks tumbled by, the anger of the town grew, rolling into a fiery ball of fury. Resented by the people in town, the mother of the one responsible soon became an outcast. No concerned neighbor knocked on her door, bearing a home-cooked meal; no sympathetic store clerk clasped her hand in comfort. Stoically pressing on past the hard glares, she refused to simply disappear, constantly combing the town for any leads on the cause of the accident. Visiting the bank, the grocery store, the shopping center, she was continuously shunned by everyone. People avoided her in the streets. Cashiers refused to touch her hand when returning change; instead they placed it on the countertop, where she had to scramble to pick up each individual coin.


Wearing black sunglasses, tinted so dark you could only see a basic outline of her eyes, and a mourning ribbon pinned proudly to her blouse, the mother stalked through the town which refused to forgive her son for the accident they blamed him for. She was the subject at many indignant block meetings; people could not believe that she hadn’t left town already. There was talk by some of running her out of town using any force necessary, but that was soon dissuaded. They settled for sending sharp glares and angry whispers in her direction, whenever she dared show her face in town. Fuming teenagers, presumably friends of the other two boys, one of whom was killed, splattered her car with loud red paint, writing messages of hate and revenge. They refused to forget the accident, which they swore never to forgive. Yet she carried on, from some resonating strength buried deep within her.

I watched the townspeople turn her from a respected neighbor into the outcasted enemy. I watched her struggle to stay strong every day. I watched on.

Sleep became only a concept during those harrowing weeks after the accident. At night I abandoned any pretense of normality I adopted during the day. The sheets remained carefully tucked into the corners of my bed; abandoned by the warm imprint of my body, my pillow remained plump. Instead I created a routine out of my nightly runs; always pushing myself past exhaustion, I consistently found myself staring up at the glowing sign for the diner. Pushing open the door no longer seemed such a monumental task, as I felt a barrier had been broken the night I sobbed in front of Al.


Somehow, he seemed a stranger no longer. Always offering a fresh cup of coffee or a blueberry donut, which he saved especially for me in the back, he was a comfort to me in my darkest times. When the gloom of night crept into my thoughts and I started to doubt even my own son, he was there to dry my tears while simultaneously distracting me. Although he never spoke to me, I felt we were friends; he was there for me when all others had turned their backs, certain my son had premeditated the accident. Never asserting any opinions on my conflict with the people of the town, he was a neutral wall, upon which I could voice my fears.


For I had many fears about what had happened at that accident. I meticulously searched through the town, hunting down any possibilities that could explain my son’s tragedy. Everyone in the town assumed it was Noah’s fault, that he had tried to kill himself and the two other boys. But I knew my son. I knew his passion about biology, how he loved anything that moved, how he was constantly fascinated by the world and how it worked. I knew the smell of his cheek as I leaned in for a goodnight kiss; I knew how it felt when he told me he loved me. I knew my son, and I knew that he would never try to kill himself.


By day I was a ferocious investigator; by night I was a mother again. The pain, deadened by the rays of the hot sun, came alive with a sharp jab as the sun sank below the horizon. Everything that seemed possible turned impossible under the cold gaze of night. Under the cover of darkness, I finally allowed myself to break down, to acknowledge the loss I had encountered. Sitting in his favorite armchair, looking out at the night sky, I could feel the tear in my heart; my pain was so palpable I felt as if I was actually splitting in two.
Some nights I didn’t even cry. I just sat, staring numbly at the wall and watched the shadows creep by. I could sit there for hours, losing precious chunks of time along with my consciousness, as my mind refused to absorb any more pain.

Night after night, I crept into Noah’s room and collapsed on his bed, breathing in his smell. If I closed my eyes I could pretend he was still there: a little boy waiting for his kiss goodnight, a young man giving a kiss on my cheek instead. After a few blissful moments, however, I was consumed with anger at what had happened, at the unfairness of having to bury my child way before his time. When these thoughts overwhelmed me, when they choked my mind with red-hot tendrils of anger, I knew I had to go out and run.


Al’s diner grew to be familiar, a constant in the otherwise tumultuous mess that had become my life. I considered it a safe haven where I could go and just forget my problems, if only for a little while. But that all changed the night I saw Max, the boy who survived, at the counter of the diner.

The anniversary of my father’s death crept up on me, surprising me with its appearance, more so this year than in other years. Having been so close to death myself only a few weeks earlier, I could feel his presence hovering over me, judging me for the dark deed I wouldn’t even admit to myself.


It was a difficult day. Any thoughts of my dad led to the brown paper bag stuffed in the back of my closet: the one thing I refused to think about. My mother was a wreck, moping around the house with soggy tissues permanently stuck to her hands. Accompanying her to my father’s grave, our annual ritual, I had to concentrate hard to not let my feelings take over. I knew if they did I would be hysterical, screaming on the ground as my mind attempted to reject the knowledge of what I had done, what we had done to Noah, why he was dead…. No, no, NO! I shook my head as if I could dislodge those poisonous thoughts, erase them from my mind.


Back at home again, my mother and I stared blankly at the TV all afternoon. Neither of us felt like doing much; she was sniffling into a wad of tissues while I pretended to not notice her pain, engrossed in the show we were watching. We were both tired from this day of remembering, while trying simultaneously to forget, so we retired to our rooms quite early. I don’t know if my mom slept at all that night; all I know was that I found sleep nearly impossible.

Lying in bed, surrounded by photos and memories that were suffocating, I could feel the walls of my room closing in on me, surrounding me just like my father’s, and also now Noah and Jason’s, coffin. I couldn’t lie there any longer, trapped by my grief. Running out of the house, I had no direction in mind; I just let my feet carry me wherever they willed. Going through town, nothing was open. All the stores and shops and restaurants were closed: lifeless and empty. But suddenly, in the road ahead of me, I could see reflections of fluorescent lights blinking on and off.

I stopped outside Al’s Diner, the only place open and animated at this time of night. Peering through the darkened windows, I could make out only a few outlines of people: just shapes, not faces. Opening the door, I walked into a bright, well-lit room, with only a couple late-night passersby sitting at scattered tables. Suddenly aware of how emotionally drained and exhausted I was, I plopped down on the nearest stool at the counter. The man behind the counter, Al I think, took one glance at me and then busied himself preparing a cup of hot cocoa, which he then gave to me, free of charge. Inhaling the sweet aroma, I had to stop my tears from escaping; hot cocoa was what I always drank with Jason, no matter the season.

When I tried to thank him, he waved me away with a comforting hand. As I sipped the sweet cocoa, the chocolate powder seeping into my mouth, the heat of the cup warmed my hands and my heart. A salty tear dropped into the cup, then another and another. Before long I was openly crying, trying to muffle my jerking sobs with a hand pressed against my mouth. I felt a cool hand lightly rest on my shoulder: Al, checking to see if I was all right. After his gentle touch, he moved away, back to the counter without a word.

The comforting hand, however, did not calm my sobs; instead it had the opposite effect. I cried harder and harder, stunned by the care of this stranger, who hadn’t even spoken one word to me. How could someone be so nice to me when I had done something so terrible? At that moment, I realized I had to tell someone, anyone, what I had done. Reaching for a paper napkin, Al proffered a pen from his back pocket, sensing somehow my need to unburden my soul. Scribbling frantically, I poured out my heart and my sorrow and my guilt, expressing my anguish at what I had done. Finished with writing, I looked around the diner and saw Noah’s mother sitting at a nearby table. Taken aback, I knew she had to know what had truly happened to her son, so I walked over to her and dropped the napkin, which held the real truth, on her table.

A crumpled napkin dropped onto my table, jolting me out of my sad thoughts. Looking around, I saw Max, quickly retreating with a scared expression upon his face. Unconcerned, I unfolded the napkin, smoothed it out, and began to read:

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This is the worst thing I have ever done, and that is why I must come clean now. I realize that you will hate me absolutely when you are finished reading this, yet I still yearn to unburden myself.

I am responsible for the accident that occurred in this very parking lot, only a couple weeks ago. I am responsible for the two boys who were killed: my best friend Jason, and the boy we often teased, Noah.

For Noah probably was depressed and desperate, and all the other things people assume are the reasons he supposedly “killed himself”, but I know this accident was not his attempt to kill us, but rather our attempt to harass him. We cut his brakes. Jason had planned this, and I stupidly went along with him, thinking the prank would soon be over; I thought maybe he would hit a mailbox or something stupid like that. I never knew my actions had these dire consequences. I never knew I would have to live with the pain that I caused this for the rest of my miserable life.


And for that I am sorry. I am not asking for forgiveness, for I know you will not be able to give me that. But I just wanted you to know the truth.

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I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even breathe. This boy had killed my son. I could feel the warmth of the tears streaming from my eyes, smudging the napkin I clutched in my hands, but my head was numb. And then, all of a sudden, I was angry. I was furious, I was fuming, and all I wanted to do was attack Max and show him the same pain I had been feeling for the past few weeks. The urge for revenge consumed me, filling my mind with ink-black hate and a burning in my belly. I looked up, ready to scream at him, prepared to throw things at him, but he was gone.

I sprinted out of there, heart racing. I could not believe I had just written that note, just exposed my darkest secret to the woman who despised me the most. She had a good reason to hate me: I had killed her son.

Slamming my front door, I ran up to my room, not pausing to let my mother know I was home. I didn’t want to see anyone in the state I was in; I knew if I saw my mother I would break down crying on her shoulder, like a little kid again. Finally reaching the safety of my room, I shut the door and leaned against it, trying fruitlessly to stop the tears pouring out of my eyes. Writing it down had finally made it real to me: I had helped kill Noah and my best friend. I couldn’t catch my breath; I was sobbing too hard to even think. The bag in my closet was just adding to my grief; I couldn’t put on any clothes without thinking of what I had done. I had to get rid of it.

My decision made, I grabbed the bag from my closet, refusing to think about its contents, and escaped towards the woods.

Getting up from the table in Al’s diner, I staggered, my legs unable to support my weight after this devastating knowledge. Al came over right away and supported me, helping me out the door, holding me up until I felt I could trust my body again. Not saying anything, he walked back inside, where, through the well-lit window, I could see him standing there, looking tired.


And then I ran.


I pushed myself, running faster than I had ever run before. Soon my chest felt constricted; I was struggling to breathe. But I couldn’t stop. I felt too full inside, too full of rage and hate to ever stop. Soon I had left town and was running through the woods. Trees blurred all around me as my feet pounded the dirt path. I was glad that no one was around; I felt that if I saw anybody I would simply assail them, dispensing my hurt and rage. I wanted revenge, and I wanted it badly.

I stood, alone, in the middle of the woods.

Building the bonfire, tears streaming from my eyes, I could see the ghosts of Noah and Jason, haunting me, glaring at me, following me. I cried out, unable to contain my pain inside any longer, emptying all my pain and grief into a primal scream that seemed to last forever in my mind. I wanted, I NEEDED to stop the pain, stop the torment my memories created. No one was supposed to die. No one was supposed to get hurt. I wanted to erase my memories of that night, erase the core essence of my being.

Opening the bag, I drew out the objects that had been torturing me for so long: my father’s tools, which we had used to disable Noah’s steering wheel.

I looked at them, truly stared at the tools that had haunted my dreams since the day of the accident. I examined every tool, felt every corner, and ran my fingers over every ridge, committing all the tools to memory. I wanted to remember these, remember their significance even after I did what I was planning to do: throw them in the fire.

When I flung in my dad’s magnesium drill bit, used to remove the bolts from the steering rod, the fire seemed to take in a breath and then hurl itself at me. The last thing I saw before I collapsed was the drill bit, burning brightly within the midst of this raging fire. Assailed by the overwhelming heat, my eyes finally closed to the light of the red-orange fire, creeping slowly up my body.

I could feel the hot blood twisting through my veins as I attempted to outrun my anger. I could feel my breath, only short gasps of air as my chest constricted. But most of all, I could feel the overwhelming desire for revenge, which seemed insatiable. Suddenly, somewhere to my right I could see a blaze of light, and then I heard a scream. Shifting my direction, I ran towards the light, unsure of what I was going to find.


Reaching the edge of a clearing, I saw a boy’s limp body lying motionless on the ground, a huge fire clambering up his body. Immediately I was transported from a grieving mother into the controlled EMT I was so accustomed to being. Dragging him out of the flames, I patted down his legs, smothering the flames. I noted that he was badly hurt as I examined his lower body, the part mostly affected by the burning fire. So focused on the extent of his injuries, it was a huge shock when I caught sight of his face: it was Max. The light of the blazing fire highlighted every crease on his face, and I looked at him in revulsion.


Dropping his hand as if it was a burning coal, I stepped back from the unconscious body of the boy who had helped kill my son. Standing there, watching his chest lightly move up and down, I knew he would not survive without immediate medical attention. I did not know what to do. I was staring at this boy from two different parts of me; one part, the EMT, instructed me to go back to him, dress his wounds, and take him to the hospital. But the other part of me, the stronger, more vocal part, was the grieving mother who wanted revenge, who wanted this boy to suffer like her son had.

For how could this boy be human? Someone who would be willing to do that to another, to my son, could not feel the same things, could not love the same things as I did. This boy responsible for my son’s death could not possibly be human. How could a human being cause so much pain and suffering knowingly? Didn’t he deserve to feel the same pain? Shouldn’t his mother mourn him the way I had mourned my own son?

And how could I rescue Max, save the boy who had hurt me the most, who had robbed me of my son? My son did not have a future because of him; wasn’t it fair for Max to have to endure the same fate? A life for a life, like an eye for an eye?

The anger and hate coursing through me was so strong that it blocked out any other thoughts. I was brought to my knees by the raw pain that accompanied the memories of my son and his death. Tears streaming down my face, I forced myself to think about Noah, really think about him. That’s when I realized there was only thing he would want me to do.

That night I did what I did for Noah.

I was there when they brought the boy in, bustling around the second bed. I watched them lay him down carefully, and check his bandages. I witnessed the mother of the boy who died stand over this boy, who had lived once again, her tears dripping onto the blanket while he slept. I watched everything through eyes streaming with tears from my constant coughing, which just seemed to never go away. I watched them, peaceful even with the knowledge of my death rapidly approaching. I watched on.

I woke up in a hospital bed. Surrounded by absolute whiteness and sterility, I, for one amazing moment, could not remember how I had gotten there. Then all of a sudden, my memories became all too clear; I pounded my face into the spotless pillow, overpowered by disinfectant, trying fruitlessly to will the painful memories back into hiding. I had almost killed myself in a fire, and I did not know if that was truly my intent all along: to end my life.

Thinking of the fire, of the blazing flames, I wondered how I could still be alive and in the hospital. Who had saved me? As if answering my thoughts, Noah’s mom walked through the door into my hospital room, which I shared with another patient. Looking at her in confusion, I could not understand why she had saved me when I had killed her son. Struggling with my tumultuous thoughts, I asked her why. She replied simply:
“Because I had to forgive you. It is what Noah would have wanted.”

At her words, I felt an enormous burden lifted off my weary shoulders; my muscles that had been constantly constricted seemed to relax.

There was so much more I wanted to say to her, but at that moment we were interrupted by a coughing fit which seemed to last forever. Pulling back the divider between the two hospital beds, we saw Al lying in the other bed. Unable to speak, the nurse, who had just entered, told us he was suffering from lung cancer and didn’t have larynx anymore. She continued on to say that the lung cancer had been caused by second-hand smoking, from his father’s constant addiction. I looked at Al, truly looked at him, and saw how he was not bent over with anger at his father, how angry creases had not appeared on his face over time. I looked at him, and all I saw was a man at peace, something I couldn’t grasp. How could he feel so peaceful and calm when his father caused the disease which was killing him? How could he not feel the need for revenge?

And then I looked at Noah’s mom, who seemed calmer and more composed than when I saw her in the restaurant. I saw how she looked at him with such compassion and care, and I realized that since she had forgiven me, the lines on her face seemed to smooth out and disappear. I marveled at these two people who radiated forgiveness from every part of their bodies, and wondered at their strength.

As Al coughed and struggled to breathe, we each took one of his hands and grasped it tightly, giving him the same comfort he had provided us with. I realized how much I owed to this man; he helped me realize that I was not all bad inside, and he influenced me to tell the truth. I think, in some unconscious way, he also helped Noah’s mom to forgive me, to let go of her anger. None of us spoke; we just held his hand as his breathing grew lighter and lighter.

We watched him as he fought for breath, attempting to speak to us. Shushing him, we watched him sink back on the pillow, coughing. We watched his eyes grow content as he realized I had been forgiven for telling the truth, and then we watched them close for the last time. We watched on.