Hello Marcus, Rachel, Brittany and Hailey,
Each of you will have a separate letter. But first, here's a letter to all of you. As a unit. As you were that night.
You banded together, and plotted to let my life slip away. Marcus, you gave the go-ahead. You gave the girls the okay to leave you and I in the car, because the cops arriving would be far worse than death. You did this as if you knew I was fine, as if you knew my strained breathing would eventually stop, and because of the situation, it'd magically be nobody's fault. "We all got drunk and got in the car, and we don't know what happened after that." It sounds so perfect, like an innocent teenage mistake. It's the perfect drunk-driving fairytale. It's really too bad that I'll have to be the one to recount this fairytale to your children. And I will.
But for now, let's talk about now. Guess what? I'm still alive. I'm still breathing, I'm still writing, I'm still aching, I'm still sore, I'm still angry, I'm still sad, I'm still healing, and I'm still talking about that night. About "what happened," according to the four of you, or four excuses for human beings, as I like to say. I have a lot of my story to tell. And you aren't part of the new testament.
You cannot escape what you did that night. You can try to escape me, block me on Facebook, ignore that I exist, pretend that I died, and do whatever you want to do, if it makes you feel better. Believe me, I know what it's like to adopt crazy coping skills. Desperate times call for desperate measures, you know? But really, no, you don't know. You'll never have any idea what I went through, and what I had to do to get through it.
I want to write this blog for anyone in the world to read. You chose to be a part of this awful story. But thankfully, I chose to cut you out of my story now. My bright, beautiful story of who I've become since you all abandoned me. Left me for dead. Since you looked at me struggling to breathe and walked away.
Don't get confused. While I take pity on your empty souls, I do still hate you. I still seethe at the thought of you. I still wish I could see you in pain. The pain that I experienced from the injuries was unbelievable, insurmountable. It was a physical pain that I plan to never feel again. It doesn't compare to the pain I feel in the gym, where I work to restore my muscles every other day. The muscles that you, Marcus, chose to degrade and destroy.
Let me be clear: an accident did not occur. A reckless, stupid and dangerous stunt occurred, and I paid for it.
But no physical pain will ever compare to the nights of loneliness, of crying myself to sleep; of wishing I were dead. Because of my traumatic brain injury and what you girls did to me, I convinced myself that my life was no longer worth living. I never attempted suicide. I couldn't give you that satisfaction, and my family came close to losing me once. Once was enough. I struggled and wished for it to end, but it didn't.
With all of that said, I hope you had fun that night.
I hope you had fun as we climbed the curved hill on that icy night. I hope you had fun as Marcus shut off the headlights and accelerated the car. I hope you had fun as I begged Marcus to stop his stunts and spare my life. It was too late. Marcus, you sweet boy, you listened to me at the final moment. You flipped the headlights back on, just in time for me to see the telephone pole, kissed with frozen grass and brush at the bottom. I saw it zig-zagging toward us as the car hit uneven ground, as we flew toward the last image I thought I'd ever see. And then, darkness. For ten days, utter darkness.
Truly, Marcus, well done, Cinematic. I couldn't have written the scene better for a movie. Rachel sitting up front, acting as if she had no idea what was going on. Brittany sitting in the back, reveling in Marcus' badassery and coolness; proud to be even secretly fucking this fat, ugly pig. Hailey passed out next to me, ready to slam her large, drunken frame into mine, to add the extra "oomph" to my injuries. Marcus, in control of the car, but out of control in the car. Maniacal, insane, reckless and more than anything, just plain fucking stupid.
And then, there was me. Fucked up, but still a little sober. The most sober out of everyone, always. Even if my blood-alcohol level said I was drunker than all of you, I still had more sense. Always. That night, I sat up, grasped Marcus' shoulder, and begged him to stop. While all of you sat and watched it happen. Yet, I paid for his cruel little stunt. It's funny how the world works, isn't it?
You didn't have a phone, you were scared, you were in shock, you thought I was dead, you wanted to get out of there, you were hurt, you didn't know what to do, you didn't want the cops to show up. I don't really care what your excuses were or still are. I don't care if you don't own up to nearly committing manslaughter. Marcus, I'd go so far as to say you almost committed murder. Thank God I'm still alive to tell the story, to let everyone know what you all wanted to keep secret.
It was not an accident. And you know it. Girls, your leaving me there was not an accident.
And little boy, our striking that telephone pole at 70 mph was no accident. You chose to take the risk. Now I choose to tell the story.
I hope you'll enjoy this blog as much as I will enjoy writing it. I can only hope that the headaches I still suffer from that night will dissipate as each letter, and more facts, flow forth from my brain.
This is what happened to me. This is my story.
Each of you will have a separate letter. But first, here's a letter to all of you. As a unit. As you were that night.
You banded together, and plotted to let my life slip away. Marcus, you gave the go-ahead. You gave the girls the okay to leave you and I in the car, because the cops arriving would be far worse than death. You did this as if you knew I was fine, as if you knew my strained breathing would eventually stop, and because of the situation, it'd magically be nobody's fault. "We all got drunk and got in the car, and we don't know what happened after that." It sounds so perfect, like an innocent teenage mistake. It's the perfect drunk-driving fairytale. It's really too bad that I'll have to be the one to recount this fairytale to your children. And I will.
But for now, let's talk about now. Guess what? I'm still alive. I'm still breathing, I'm still writing, I'm still aching, I'm still sore, I'm still angry, I'm still sad, I'm still healing, and I'm still talking about that night. About "what happened," according to the four of you, or four excuses for human beings, as I like to say. I have a lot of my story to tell. And you aren't part of the new testament.
You cannot escape what you did that night. You can try to escape me, block me on Facebook, ignore that I exist, pretend that I died, and do whatever you want to do, if it makes you feel better. Believe me, I know what it's like to adopt crazy coping skills. Desperate times call for desperate measures, you know? But really, no, you don't know. You'll never have any idea what I went through, and what I had to do to get through it.
I want to write this blog for anyone in the world to read. You chose to be a part of this awful story. But thankfully, I chose to cut you out of my story now. My bright, beautiful story of who I've become since you all abandoned me. Left me for dead. Since you looked at me struggling to breathe and walked away.
Don't get confused. While I take pity on your empty souls, I do still hate you. I still seethe at the thought of you. I still wish I could see you in pain. The pain that I experienced from the injuries was unbelievable, insurmountable. It was a physical pain that I plan to never feel again. It doesn't compare to the pain I feel in the gym, where I work to restore my muscles every other day. The muscles that you, Marcus, chose to degrade and destroy.
Let me be clear: an accident did not occur. A reckless, stupid and dangerous stunt occurred, and I paid for it.
But no physical pain will ever compare to the nights of loneliness, of crying myself to sleep; of wishing I were dead. Because of my traumatic brain injury and what you girls did to me, I convinced myself that my life was no longer worth living. I never attempted suicide. I couldn't give you that satisfaction, and my family came close to losing me once. Once was enough. I struggled and wished for it to end, but it didn't.
With all of that said, I hope you had fun that night.
I hope you had fun as we climbed the curved hill on that icy night. I hope you had fun as Marcus shut off the headlights and accelerated the car. I hope you had fun as I begged Marcus to stop his stunts and spare my life. It was too late. Marcus, you sweet boy, you listened to me at the final moment. You flipped the headlights back on, just in time for me to see the telephone pole, kissed with frozen grass and brush at the bottom. I saw it zig-zagging toward us as the car hit uneven ground, as we flew toward the last image I thought I'd ever see. And then, darkness. For ten days, utter darkness.
Truly, Marcus, well done, Cinematic. I couldn't have written the scene better for a movie. Rachel sitting up front, acting as if she had no idea what was going on. Brittany sitting in the back, reveling in Marcus' badassery and coolness; proud to be even secretly fucking this fat, ugly pig. Hailey passed out next to me, ready to slam her large, drunken frame into mine, to add the extra "oomph" to my injuries. Marcus, in control of the car, but out of control in the car. Maniacal, insane, reckless and more than anything, just plain fucking stupid.
And then, there was me. Fucked up, but still a little sober. The most sober out of everyone, always. Even if my blood-alcohol level said I was drunker than all of you, I still had more sense. Always. That night, I sat up, grasped Marcus' shoulder, and begged him to stop. While all of you sat and watched it happen. Yet, I paid for his cruel little stunt. It's funny how the world works, isn't it?
You didn't have a phone, you were scared, you were in shock, you thought I was dead, you wanted to get out of there, you were hurt, you didn't know what to do, you didn't want the cops to show up. I don't really care what your excuses were or still are. I don't care if you don't own up to nearly committing manslaughter. Marcus, I'd go so far as to say you almost committed murder. Thank God I'm still alive to tell the story, to let everyone know what you all wanted to keep secret.
It was not an accident. And you know it. Girls, your leaving me there was not an accident.
And little boy, our striking that telephone pole at 70 mph was no accident. You chose to take the risk. Now I choose to tell the story.
I hope you'll enjoy this blog as much as I will enjoy writing it. I can only hope that the headaches I still suffer from that night will dissipate as each letter, and more facts, flow forth from my brain.
This is what happened to me. This is my story.
