Accident.

We were just kids. Kids with wild imaginations, neglecting parents, and a handful of Xanax.

It was an accident, I can see it now. But, it still happened, and nothing can change that. That day, the one so long ago, changed everything. It shaped the rest of my life; it shaped me into who I am now. And I hate it. I hate that I can be defined by one thing. Reduced to ash by an incident. An incident. It wasn't on purpose.

Everything was harder now. Getting a job, partaking in new relationships, even family reunions. It ended up all over the news; My name on the front cover.

Whenever a possible boss of mine goes to search up my social medias, to double check what I may post, they see it, and they leave. In new relationships, the topic always surface, and they leave. At holidays, or reunions, it's the only topic on anyones mind. Even if nobody is saying it out loud, I know that everyone is thinking it. Everyone is shooting imaginary darts at my head because of what I've done.

And, the more I look back, the more I realize how irresponsible I truly am. If it were one, maybe two people, it'd be fine. But four? I got four people killed, and there was no coming back from that.

What's worse; They were family. My two younger sisters, and my eldest brother. At the time, I was four. The girls were both three, as they were born the same day. My brother was six. If anything, it should be his fault. The blame should be on him, not me. I was younger. I was dumber.

I was dumber because I couldn't tell the difference between candy and drugs. Mother had always been a junkie, and there was never a time where she hadn't been using. So yes, I was dumb for not being able to tell the difference. Even at a young age.

And there I was, believing I was a hero for finding a treat for all of us. I thought I was a good sister for handing out the pills like money. I handed every single one of them off, not saving any for myself. At the time, Christmas was only a week away, and I wanted nothing more than to secure my spot on the "good list." What better way to be a good kid than to sacrifice my goods to my family.

I was an idiot.

I was four and I was an idiot and I got them killed. There had to have been nearly two dozen of them in the bag. Splitting that up between the three of them, and, once again, at such a young age--No wonder why it ended disastrous.

I still remember going inside for a juice. I still remember returning back outside, only to find everyone lying in the grass. I still remember thinking that they were joking. I still remember shaking Leo and screaming and crying and yelling for help until a neighbor came by.

I still remember the faint buzzing of the sirens.

From that day forward, I was renamed. Reborn. I tried to never look back at the incident, even as the blurred memories haunted me in any waking moment. I wanted no connection to the past. Nothing at all.

This wasn't possible. I still met with my father and cousins. I still visit the house; The crime scene. I was young, that much I know. But, I also know that I lost the most important things in my life. My blood. My family.

My heart.

My heart died alongside my siblings that day. The guilt remained; That part never died away.

As the years progressed, I was put into my fathers care. And with that: Therapy. There were 6 total therapists that I've been to.

The first one told me it was my fault. My father didn't like that.

The second one told me that it was my moms fault. I didn't like that.

The third and fourth ones told me I was too old to be going to therapy for something that happened so long ago. My conscious didn't like that.

The fifth one offered me the same drugs in the first hour. The police didn't like that.

The sixth one, the one I'm currently with, is normal. She hadn't offered me anything, or blamed me, or belittled me. She had told me that I was growing out of the age to even remember the accident.

Maybe she was right. Maybe she was wrong. Regardless, I would never know because the memory would never leave. The red and blue lights; The funeral; The tormenting.

Most days I pray. I pray I can return and fix things. I want nothing more than to fix things, for I, ruined everything that day.

Emily never got to become the dancer she wanted to be. Sam never became a singer. Even for three year olds, they had plans. I never got to see their weddings, or the day they'd finally be accepted into art colleges.

Leo never got to become the doctor he dreamt of being. He was the smartest six year old I had ever met. Dad told me that first word was heart, and the second was cardio. I doubted it, but the memory kept dad happy. I never got to see him travel the world, saving lives as he went on. I thought about being a doctor, like he had wanted to. But how could I save lives, if I couldn't theirs.

But me, I'm a wasted soul. I survived, and yet, I hadn't lived. I always wanted to fulfill my dreams of being a writer, but I have never gotten any luck. If not for my bosses being biased against my past, it was the skill itself.

I wasn't bad, but I wasn't good enough. I was never, truly good enough. All I want in life, the only thing, is to be good enough. I have to push myself to be better everyday. And if not for me, then for them.

I have three lives to make up for. I vowed that I would make up for the loss of their souls. And I intend on keeping that vow alive until I draw my last breath.