A Story A Day. Story 38 of 365: Scars.

After that drunken episode that had ended with a total count of twenty beers drank, he had promised himself, and the nurse, he wouldn't do it again. But, then, when her face appeared in his dreams, alcohol was the only way to make it go away. His psychiatrist would tell him that it wasn't the right way to deal with grief, but it wasn't grief, it was guilt.

-You don't understand it.- he would tell the doctor.

-Sean, I've seen lots of cases, but I need you to let me help you. Why are you saying that you killed her?

-Because I did, doctor, I did it!

He stood up and started walking up and down the room.

-She wasn't supposed to be with me. I begged for her to come along, that's why I killed her, that's why it is my fault. I knew it could be dangerous, but nothing had ever happened. And it happened that day, and she is dead because of me.

-It was an accident.- the doctor interfered.

Sean stopped pacing and stared at him in confusion.

-There's no such thing, there are no accidents. We both had risked our lives on a daily basis at some time in our life. We both knew we could die eventually, specially me, but she wasn't supposed to be there with me that evening, her death was senseless, I was the one who was working, not her. If she had stayed at home she would be alive. Maybe I would be dead, but she deserved to live more than I did.

-You need to stop punishing yourself for surviving.

-I'm not punishing myself for surviving, I'm punishing myself for killing her.

The doctor finally gave up.

-Sean, I want you to think about everything that happened that night. And I want you to write it down as it happened, then you'll hand it to me and we will go through it together, alright?

-Why would I do that?- Sean said, defiantly.

-Because I'm your doctor and I tell you so. You need to rely on me if you ever want to get better, Sean.- his voice softened as he spoke.- Will you do it?

Sean nodded after leaving the room. Maybe it is not such a bad idea, maybe it would give everything some kind of closure, it would help the scars in his mind heal.

When he got home he sat down on the kitchen table in front of a blank piece of paper, he had never been a good writer, that he knew, and he wondered if he would be able to put down in words what happened that night. As the ink flowed so did his tears, by the time he was done his eyes where dry again. He took the pile of papers and folded them neatly, he was still not ready to read it, not on his own, at least.