Dear Malcolm,
I didn’t mean for it to happen. I did not see you for more than an instant, a darting black flash in my rear view mirror... or just in front of it... before our cruel fates collided: hard, fast, and unchangeable. I stopped. I saw you leaping frantically, struggling against the pain of your broken limbs. You stopped, sat huddled and bent over, and I cannot imagine what the aftermath was like for you. I wanted to scream. How could this have happened? What uncaring force could have led us to this needless agony?
I found your parents, after some searching. Your father cradled you in his arms, and I saw blood seeping from everywhere; your half-open mouth, your staring yellow eyes, your nose. I imagined you were dying fast, but I was wrong.
Your jaw was broken, and your lungs had filled with blood. You lived, for a while. Three days, which I can only hope were peaceful, and gave you time to say goodbye to everything you knew.
This letter is an apology. It is a confirmation of my deepest remorse for taking your life, and for the sad confirmation that it was unintentional. If the universe knows balance, it would be cruel: I would gladly even things out by suffering through the same pointless pain as you did – but I hope you never have to feel the sorrow I do now.
Let us hope that balance, rather than a measure of one pain against another, will prove to be one of our combined pain against joy. We are mutually tethered, you and I. In some life, at some time past or future point, we share a brighter, happier moment together. I make too many oaths on the name of eternity, but I own you one, at the very least.
To compassion, and to release.
Rest easy, brother.
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