The Aftermath

I sucked in a breath. This couldn't be real. They weren't actually letting me go. I didn't deserve to be let go. It was my fault that the little girl in the Honda Civic died, and her mother was in the hospital, teetering between life and death. Even if she didn't pass away, she would be haunted by grief and survivor's guilt for the rest of her life. It was my fault that the girl's mother would never see her grow up, attend college, and eventually get married. The guilt would gnaw at my conscience till the end of my days. And I deserved every second of it.

I couldn't accept this. I couldn't be allowed to walk the streets free while that little girl was lost forever. It wasn't fair. In a shaky voice, I said, "I can't. I won't walk out of this station unless it is to deliver my punishment. I'm a murderer. I killed her, Maria. And now I'm just supposed to walk out like it never happened?" I didn't care that Maria was a policeman. She was also my friend, and at that moment, she was the one I needed. Her tired eyes seemed to beckon me, reminding me of a freezing morning in a cafe. Before she could reply, a memory surged up.

It was a cold winter morning, and I had stopped at this little cafe for some coffee. I hadn't had any breakfast, and I was starving. Unfortunately, the entire place was packed. I squeezed into the only remaining seat left. Next to me, there was a woman around my age who looked like she had been sleep-deprived all night. "Hi," I said, extending my hand out to shake. "I'm Zoe." She seemed to hesitate for a fraction of a second before she slowly shook it. "I'm Maria," she said wearily. "Rough night?" I asked. "Very. I work at the police station downtown, and I just spent six hours chasing down a guy who had stolen a car. Been driving since 2 am. And I still have to go back to that police station to file a report. Ugh." I was taken aback. I did not expect that. But she looked like talking to me was lifting her spirits. So, I continued to chat with her. "Oh, that sounds horrible. I can't imagine going through that and still remaining sane. Are you okay?" And that was the start of a beautiful friendship.

I almost smiled, recalling that memory. Almost. I could not forget the events that had transpired a few weeks ago. It was too painful. No matter what anyone said, I had still caused her death, even accidentally. Her blood was on my hands - I could almost feel it. Warm. Crimson. Staining me. My throat seized up. I felt something pressing against my chest, like a weight I couldn't shove off. I fought to keep the tears at bay.

"Maria, I'm sorry, I really am, but the guilt is suffocating. I can't deal with this, and I don't even know how!" By this time, I was this close to completely having a full-blown meltdown. Maria strode around the desk and enveloped me in her arms, grounding me. "Shh, shh. It's okay to not be okay. Don't worry, I'm here." I cried silent tears in her uniform. Finally, my sobs subsided. I looked up at her with watery eyes. She had a distant look as if she was staring at nothing and everything at the same time.

We stayed like that for a few more minutes, neither of us letting go. Finally, I regained my composure. "Sorry, it's just..." She put her hand over my mouth, effectively shutting me up. "Hey, it's not your fault. Anyone would have gotten overwhelmed." Then she removed her hand. I tried to say something, but one glare from her made me reconsider. "Now listen to me, okay. You are distressed and anxious right now, so I am going to drive you to your apartment after I tell the administration that I will be taking the next few days off. No buts! You will not stay here. That girl's death was not your fault, and we will not discuss it here. Anyway, when we get to your apartment, you are going to take a nap, while I go get groceries. When I come back, I'll whip up dinner and then we'll watch a movie of your choice and go to bed." I wanted to protest, but then her eyes softened. "Zoe, you know I'm doing this because I care, right? It's for your own good. I can't have you cooped up in your apartment, not eating, not talking, not doing anything. That's not good for you. I want the best for you, you know. You're like a sister to me. I don't want to see you hurting."

That made me smile - small, reluctant but real. It was comforting to know that someone still gave a damn about me when no one else did. Over time, everyone had just left, one after the other, drifting away once they got bored of me. Now, only Maria and a handful of other close friends stayed - a little family of misfits, bound together by similar scars and stubborn loyalty. Somehow, we held on and persevered through the tornado of life with each other, when no one else would. Most of our best moments happened over food—late-night takeout runs, improvised dinners in my cramped kitchen, or birthday cakes I insisted on baking from scratch. Those nights of just hanging out meant everything in the world to us. And maybe, just maybe, with my friends at my side, I could overcome this.

I briefly closed my eyes, then sighed softly. "Okay. Okay, I'll do it. For you." I barely registered walking to the front office, and then the car. As we sat down, and Maria started driving, I asked the question that had been bugging me. "Why? Why would you help me so much? Why would you stay with me when leaving would be so much easier?" I watched Maria's face. Her eyebrows were scrunched up, and she had a pondering expression, like she wasn't sure what to say.

"You were always there for us," she said at last. "Whenever any of us, me, Anna, Bianca, or Phoebe needed someone, anyone, for anything, whether it was for help, support, or just to talk, you were there. In all of our hardest moments, you were the one comforting us, not our family or siblings. Always you. I guess this is my way of paying you back. I want to be here for you, just like you were for me."

We sat in silence. I didn't say anything. I didn't need to. The silence spoke volumes, conveying what words never could. I basked in the quiet. It was a nice relief from the guilt that had been plaguing me for the past few weeks. I closed my eyes.

After what felt like seconds, even though it had been twenty minutes, we stopped in the parking lot of my apartment building. Maria opened the door for me, and I stepped out. A gentle breeze hit my face, cleansing me of my worries. I couldn't stop a small smile from appearing on my face at coming back to my home of the last four years. I strode ahead, Maria following behind.

We walked into the lobby, waving to the receptionist as we walked past and entered the lift. After pressing the button for the fifth floor, both of us leaned against the walls like we used to do. We both laughed when we met each other's gaze. Though mine was a tired and sad chuckle. I listened to the lift clinking against machinery as we waited for it to stop. When we reached my floor, we walked to apartment number 94. My apartment.

The door looked the same as always, a faded blue colour with paint peeling at the edges and a white frame. Stepping inside felt like stepping into my own world. A world full of my interests in cooking, art, reading, and writing. It was home.

As soon as I walked in, I was hit with the familiar scent of pine from the pine trees just behind the building. The soft carpet beneath my feet and the handmade paintings which adorned the walls brought forth a sense of belonging which had been absent for so long. The kitchen reminded me of my grandmother, who had inspired me to open my very own restaurant one day. She was the reason I kept going, kept trying to save up from my job in the office downtown, to attend culinary school and fulfill my dreams. This kitchen was where I had spent countless hours, experimenting and perfecting recipes until they were exceptional. It was my very own laboratory.

I saw the flowers and vegetables I had carefully cultivated over the past years. They brought a sense of satisfaction, knowing my hard work was paying off. Maria and I walked to my room. The familiar bed and messy dresser greeted me inside. I cleared my throat. "Maria, uh, could I change?" She got flustered, "Of course, I'll wait outside." I watched her step outside as I searched for my nightdress. Once I was done changing, I let Maria back in. "Are you okay?" she asked, concern seeping into her voice. "Do you need anything?" "Maria, I'm fine," I snapped, my voice coming out harsher than I had wanted. I panicked. "I'm sorry, you're already doing so much for me, I'm just being ungrateful!" Maria only sighed and sat on my bed. "I should've expected this, you've always been independent and strong. The accident wouldn't take away that determination. I've been fussing over you too much. I shouldn't nag you a lot. And don't think you can't tell me your opinions. I won't judge, and you can speak your mind around me, okay?" "Okay. I'll try." She smiled at me and got up.

As she was leaving, I slid under the covers and inhaled a deep breath of air. I listened to the click of the door closing. Then, there was silence. Pure, absolute silence. I turned over to my side and tried to sleep. Finally, I drifted off.

In my dreams, flashes of tires and fire filled my vision. My ears were ringing with the screeching of metal and terrified screams. The sound of a child's crying echoes in my head. I saw the little girl whose car I had hit over and over again. She was lying in a pool of blood. You killed me. Those words were smeared red on her white dress. They burned themselves in my mind. I couldn't look away. Those words haunted me. Engraved in my mind. Unable to leave me be.

I woke up in a cold sweat. My heart raced and I shook uncontrollably. My breathing came out short and panicked. Maria wasn't back yet. I was completely alone and powerless to my own mind. Shrieks of terror reverberated in my skull. When I closed my eyes, I kept seeing the image of the girl over and over again. The picture was literally burned into my eyelids. My throat seized up. Tears streamed down my face. The world blurred ...

Suddenly, as a blessing in disguise, the phone rang. I felt overwhelming gratitude flooding through my veins. The sudden noise provided me with a temporary relief from the phantoms in my mind. I crawled over the the phone to answer. It was Phoebe on a video call. "Hi Zoe, I heard you just got discharged ... OH MY GOD! ARE YOU OKAY! WHAT'S WRONG? ZOE, ANSWER ME PLEASE!" I clapped my hands over my ears, as a fresh wave of pain rushed through my head. Phoebe saw me hyperventilating as my breathing got quicker. "Oh no, Zoe, listen to me please! Close your eyes, okay." I followed her lead, trying not to cry out. "Good, good. Now breathe through your nose, okay, slowly, then hold for a few seconds, and let it out. Okay, see you're starting to do it. Now repeat. In and out, in and out!" I followed Phoebe's instructions until I calmed down enough to talk. "Th-Thank you," I stammered. "No need to thank me, but what was that? What happened?" I avoided her eyes. "Nightmares," I muttered. "Oh. Maria told me about how you've been blaming yourself for that girl's death. I wanted to check on you, see how you were doing." "Not the best, I've been better." Phoebe let out a hollow laugh. "Yeah. Now listen, I'm really sorry about this, but I can't stay any longer. I've got this medical appointment in about ten minutes and I've got to drive there. I'm so, so sorry. I'll come over to spend some time properly, okay." I expected to feel disappointment, maybe even anger, but the genuine sorrow in her eyes made me rethink. "Okay," I said, feeling lighter than I had expected. "It's okay, I don't want to intrude and make you miss your appointment. I'll talk to you later, bye." "Bye." She waved, then hung up.

I sat in bed, contemplating what to do. I decided to take a shower. I hadn't washed properly in days, and it wasn't like I was going to get any sleep. I got up and walked into the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, I stepped out of the shower, steam curling around me like a protective shield. The water had washed away more than just the grime—it had taken with it a little piece of the weight I’d been carrying. Just a sliver, but enough to breathe a little easier.

The next few weeks blurred into a mixture of bad days and… slightly less bad days. Maria kept showing up—groceries in one hand, stubborn loyalty in the other. Phoebe called every few nights. Anna and Bianca dropped by unannounced, pretending it was “just because they were in the neighborhood,” but leaving behind comfort food, plants, and warm chatter that filled the empty corners of my apartment.

The nightmares still came, but they weren’t every night anymore. I started eating proper meals again—small portions at first, mostly soup and toast, but it was something. Then one day, without realizing it, I caught myself humming while chopping vegetables. It was such an ordinary thing, but it made my chest ache—in a good way.

I started cooking more. At first, just for myself. Then, for Maria, who insisted I was “auditioning” for her stomach. Then, for all my friends, crammed into my tiny kitchen, laughter echoed against the walls. I’d forgotten what that sound felt like.

Months passed, and slowly, I began to see a future again—not the one I’d planned before the accident, but one I could still shape. I threw myself into saving. Every extra hour at the office, every catering side job I could find, I took it. I sold old clothes, baked for community fundraisers, and even taught weekend cooking classes at the library. The guilt was still there, but it no longer consumed me. Instead, I let it remind me to live fully, to honor the life that had been lost.

The day I finally had enough, I squealed in joy and immediately called all my friends. They were showering me in praise and encouragement. I applied for culinary school the very same day.

One rainy afternoon, I found myself holding an envelope in trembling hands. I had checked the mailbox expecting bills, flyers, and junk. Instead, there it was: my application reply from the Auguste Escoffier Academy of Culinary Arts—the place I’d dreamed of for years.

I sat at the kitchen table, my heart pounding. Maria was across from me, her chin in her hands, grinning like she already knew the outcome. “Open it,” she urged. I tore it open, my fingers clumsy.

Dear Ms. Martinez, it began. We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into the Auguste Escoffier Academy…

The rest blurred as tears welled in my eyes. My throat tightened, but for once, it wasn’t from grief—it was from something I thought I’d lost forever. Hope. Maria let out a cheer, pulling me into a hug that nearly knocked me off my chair. “See? I told you you’d make it.”

And in that moment, I realized she was right—not just about the academy, but about me. I wasn’t “fixed,” and maybe I never would be. But I was healing. I was living again.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I looked at the road ahead and felt something other than fear. I felt ready.