Why? Why did this have to be the last image I have of her? It’s the image that has been burned into my mind: Nicole, my wife, the woman I loved, the mother of our child, broken, lifeless, grotesque. After I regained consciousness moments after the accident, I saw her and screamed, pleaded with her to wake up, knowing it was useless. Why did this have to be how I remember her? It’s the cruelest trick, added to the cruelest joke of being hit by a drunk driver.

I look past Nicole’s mauled body to the back seat.

Caitlyn.

She’s strapped in by her seatbelt, her body laying back. Like Nicole, her head is at a nauseating angle. Her eyes are open. Lifeless.

No. No. It wasn’t like this.

She was alive. I tried to help her. She was breathing but I couldn’t touch her because I was afraid that if she had a spinal injury, I would paralyze her. So, I had to sit there, pleading, begging her to wake up. Those minutes between when I called 9-1-1 until the ambulance arrived were an eternity. I couldn’t touch my daughter. I couldn’t do anything. The EMTs had to drag me away screaming towards the ambulance as they began cutting into the door. Caitlyn was alive.

But now, she’s dead in the back seat.

It wasn’t like this!

“Caitlyn?!” I scream and frantically try to open the crushed door. The handle won’t budge. Through the remains of the window, I grab the edge of the door and pull. The shards of glass slice into my hand and work their way under my fingernails.

I grunt, curse, and scream.

“Caitlyn! Somebody help me, please!”

In between my efforts, there’s a faint whisper.

“It’s your fault …”

I stop and peer into the black fog. A thin layer of snow lies on the ground among the black trees, but I don’t see anyone.

“It’s your fault …” the whisper says again, somewhere near me.

“Why didn’t you see the truck? It’s your fault …”

I slowly turn back to the wreckage.

Nicole’s eyes stare lifelessly in front of her but her lips move. “It’s your fault …”

“No … No … Nicole … Please … I’m sorry.”

The rest of her body remains motionless except her lips. “It’s your fault … Why did you let this happen?”

“Nicole. I didn’t see—”

“It’s your fault …”

Her whispers grow louder. Her voice is accusatory, sad, and terrified, all at once.

“It’s your fault … It’s your fault … You did this … You killed me … You killed us …”

“Stop! Please!”

Hot tears begin stinging my eyes.

“It’s your fault. It’s your fault. It’s your fault—”

“Nicole, I love you. Please, please, stop it …”

Her voice and lips tremble, but her eyes and body remain lifeless.

“It’s your fault. It’s your fault. It’s your fault.”