The Greatest Regret (974 hits)
Category: GeneralRating: 1.92 on 28 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by shadow (View user info) at 2008-10-13 19:43:17 EDT
Regret for the things we did can be tempered by time; it is regret for the things we did not do that is inconsolable.
-Sydney J. Harris
Whenever I am asked, "what is your greatest regret," I usually offer up one of my tried and true answers. "I regret failing to finish my degree," or perhaps "I don't regret the choices I've made, just the ones I didn't make." I like those answers; they sound like good, solid answers. They sound like the kind of boring answers you expect, and so the conversation quickly dies.
Just between you and me, I've never told the truth.
I was out of state when I got the phone call, though technically I was only forty minutes away, just across the state line. When the man on the other end introduced himself as Officer Wossname, I figured he was calling about my stolen credit card. I breathed a sigh of relief and told him I was glad to hear from him. He then corrected my assumption; he was not calling about the fraud case. He was calling to ask me to identify a body.
I stuttered for a moment, trying to explain that he must have had the wrong number. He assured me that he did not. He said the victim's name, and then repeated it, and asked if I knew her. Well yes, I replied, but there must be some kind of mistake. No, he said, there was no mistake. Officer Christina Whatthehellever had confirmed it; Julie was dead. They had Julie's driver's license. She was found in her own apartment. Identifying the body was a formality. Her parents could not be reached. Her parent's phone was not in service. They were sure of who she was, but paperwork needed to be signed. The body would need to be released. It would only take a few minutes. There would be a grief councilor available should I find myself in need.
I stood there for a moment, holding the phone as if it were some foreign device cackling gibberish at me. I had to give him an answer, I had to say something.
I told him I couldn't. There are many things I can do, but this wasn't one of them. Out of state, I was; a lame but true excuse. I gave Officer Wossname Julie's boyfriend's phone number. My cowardly refusal would mean that her young boyfriend was left with the grim duty. He had just turned eighteen.
I suppose in hindsight I was hoping they were wrong. Maybe if I didn't actually see her, cold and gray on a metal table, a sheet pulled up for some semblance of dignity, it would mean that she wasn't really dead. Maybe it was some other girl, with long black hair and almond eyes. Some other pretty Korean girl, in the wrong place at the wrong time. This selfish hope kept me from feeling completely shattered by the news. I waited to hear from friends, I waited to hear anything.
Her funeral was a week later. Open casket. No mistake. Her parents, once informed, had elected to bury her in her prom dress; a long pale pink satin gown with slightly pouffy sleeves. The mortician had dressed her with white satin gloves that did not match the cream colored trim of her blue-gray steal casket, but covered her skin up to her elbows where the dress took over. She was effectively covered from neck to toe, probably to hide defensive wounds, or perhaps to hide the self inflicted ones.
The whole time I was there, I didn't feel there. It was completely surreal. Completely unbelievable. Completely numbing. Completely distant. I cried, I surely did, but I couldn't even tell; I couldn't feel a single tear fall. The evidence was on the front of my jacket, which grew progressively more wet as I stood in the back of the hall and tried not to think about the fact that a girl three years my junior was being buried in her pretty pink prom dress.
As cliché and morbid as it sounds to bury a young woman in a prom dress, it probably was the nicest thing in her closet. We were all poor then, from poor families. We were all struggling to make ends meet in a patch of Mid Atlantic that was neither rural nor urban, but an awkward mix of both; overlapping dangerously at times. We all knew each other from intersecting social circles that stretched from the truck stops of Ashland to the military base at Fort Belvoir, on into the surrounding states. I had known Julie only briefly, in the greater measure of time. We had played games and I had bought alcohol for her and her boyfriend; even though I too was underage, I had a knack for finding things.
I remember these things very clearly.
Julie moved out of her parent's house when she was sixteen. She applied for emancipation on the grounds that her family could not support her financially. She moved in with a pair of slightly older friends who were in more or less the same boat of poverty. They all quit school and took on jobs to get the rent paid, barely surviving from one paycheck to the next. Times were tough, and there was no end to the struggle in sight. Still, everyone was fed. Everyone was getting by.
Things changed the night Julie was raped.
It happened in her own apartment. The attacker was a young man that she had, until then, regarded as a friend. He used a knife to intimidate her into submission. The knife was dull, but had enough of a point to scratch her throat and cut her arms. The police said the evidence was circumstantial; the man had been in her apartment previously as a guest, and finding his fingerprints or even DNA did not prove that he had assaulted her. Even the scratches and scrapes could be attributed to a night of rough, but consensual sex. She filed the report, but was told to be prepared for nothing to happen.
Three weeks later, she killed herself.
I can't tell you why. It must have simply been too much for her to handle. Too much at once.
What is regret?
I knew the man that attacked Julie. I knew him because he had attacked me. He was someone I had met through a mutual acquaintance, and when he jumped me I was completely shocked. We fought tooth and nail that night until eventually, he gave up. It might have been only a few minutes, but when you're getting beaten minutes turn into hours. He had a knife, but was unable to wield it to effect as every time he took some purchase of my skin or clothing, I would hit him or twist away. We both walked away from the encounter bruised and bloodied, but I felt as though I'd won. I had beaten him. No matter how much damage was done; he did not get any prize. Whether it was my pride or guilt or shame or any other cripplingly inappropriate emotion at work, I did not report the incident. If I had, he might have never gotten the chance at Julie.
When Julie was attacked, I wasn't there. When she needed someone to talk to, I wasn't there. I heard about it through the long line of phone chains that loosely bound the lot of us. I wanted to call her, but I did not know what I could possibly say for comfort. I was consumed with guilt as well; how could I explain to her my choice, how could I tell her I was too much a coward to go to the police? Instead of rushing down to her town to seek her out, I sat at home and waited. I assured myself that if she needed me, she would call. She never did.
As if I had not done enough damage...
The night she ended her life, Julie drank the bottle of vodka I had acquired for her boyfriend, and slit her wrists. She bled out slowly, in spite of the alcohol. The police report concluded that it had taken several hours for exsanguination to claim her.
Regret is knowing that you could have saved her life.
The funeral was a very lovely and respectful service. Julie's friends and family came from miles off to mourn her loss, bringing elaborate arrangements of flowers and gifts to place in her small casket. I distinctly remember her father's coworker, a tall man of about fifty years; he reached across the burgundy velvet rope to touch her still arm, trying in vain to deliver some posthumous comfort. I did nothing. I stood, unworthy, in their company. I could not speak. I could not think. I felt the eyes of everyone in that room, I felt that they knew, and that they blamed me.
Wracked with guilt and suffocated in sorrow, I said nothing.
.
User Reviews
Submitted by Banjo (user info) at 2008-12-05 20:06:41 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
holy moly shadow... I don't know what to say... All the best to you and I guess you could never have foreseen how it would turn out but I guess that wouldn't help.
Submitted by Snark (user info) at 2008-12-05 19:16:52 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by kaos-king (user info) at 2008-10-21 15:36:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Jesus fuck...
Hey, e-mail me at antius777.at.yahoo.com
Submitted by metalbeast7 (user info) at 2008-10-14 23:50:13 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
wow
shiet man
Submitted by theshadypeach (user info) at 2008-10-14 22:24:50 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by corn_nugget (user info) at 2008-10-14 20:33:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I have nothing to say here. I'm sorry.
Submitted by Lib (user info) at 2008-10-14 14:24:10 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by no1hasdis (user info) at 2008-10-14 14:10:54 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
not bad
Submitted by Brdn_Nkd (user info) at 2008-10-14 12:01:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by monkeyswithguns (user info) at 2008-10-14 08:43:13 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Thanks for the disclaimer, that's a pretty shitty scenario altogether.
What makes it worse is that it happens so often, and aside from fictional/pseudo-fictional stories about it, nobody really cares. Everyone just kinda shrugs and says something cliche' like "ce'st la vie" or "That's the way it goes sometimes." etc...
Submitted by i_can_get_you_a_toe (user info) at 2008-10-14 08:30:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I really loved this. The quote you uhh quoted at the beginning annoyed me, however your following story put two sides to it and it was wonderful. Just a great fucking story and well told. I've saved it to my computer.
Submitted by Nellypaal (user info) at 2008-10-14 08:25:11 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Nice read.
Submitted by orphelia (user info) at 2008-10-14 04:15:14 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Submitted by shadow (user info) at 2008-10-14 00:57:11 BST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by orphelia (user info) at 2008-10-11 09:42:25 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
4. What is your biggest regret?
That's a little too personal for a random Five Friday; you already asked about our issues.
--------------------------------------
Shadow must have a juicy secret regret. Let's gang up on her until she admits she was 'touched' by Uncle Jimmy.
NOTHING is too personal for Uber.
__________
http://www.ubersite.com/m/119282
you asked.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Uncle Jimmy sure gets around.
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2008-10-14 04:04:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Kwality.
Submitted by JoeyG (user info) at 2008-10-14 02:43:16 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Berty (user info) at 2008-10-14 02:39:19 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Intense.
Submitted by Shallabow (user info) at 2008-10-14 01:15:32 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I come back from a long hiatus and find something from one of Über's best authors waiting. Couldn't have planned it better.
Your work is always a pleasure to read, and it's the little touches of truth that make the fiction truly compelling.
The one thing that struck me as odd was the use of "councilor" instead of "counselor". At one point they were interchangeable, but I believe they currently have different purposes. Not sure if you go by Bartleby's or not, but they have a good note on usage under "council" if you're interested.
All in all, another excellent story by a consistently outstanding author.
Submitted by DaBeast (user info) at 2008-10-14 00:10:26 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This is quite good in what it reveals and what it hides and the things not said that lie between the words. I enjoyed this. Please, post more. Soon.
Submitted by Doodles (user info) at 2008-10-13 21:48:24 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I rather enjoy it when you write.
Submitted by Amontillado (user info) at 2008-10-13 21:46:13 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
very good
Submitted by lungfish (user info) at 2008-10-13 21:28:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Coming from me? I sense that you think perhaps I do not have a sensitive side. I do, as my left butt-cheek has developed a rather unfortunate heat-rash.
Nah. Just kidding. It was two months ago and it was both butt cheeks. And it was horrible.
I'll have to read more of you writing. But not tonight. Ballgame.
Commercials are over...
Submitted by firefly (user info) at 2008-10-13 21:24:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by shadow (user info) at 2008-10-13 21:18:08 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by lungfish (user info) at 2008-10-13 21:04:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Damn near had me in tears, believing it was you/non-fiction. Must be a pretty good read. Damn.
______
Coming from you, that is a very fine compliment indeed. Thank you.
Nearly everything I write is fiction, but without the truths woven in, these pieces wouldn't mean anything.
Submitted by skrapmetal (user info) at 2008-10-13 21:06:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Vurry naice-a.
Submitted by lungfish (user info) at 2008-10-13 21:04:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Damn near had me in tears, believing it was you/non-fiction. Must be a pretty good read. Damn.
Submitted by BranDo (user info) at 2008-10-13 20:15:05 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
I'm pro choice too.
Submitted by shadow (user info) at 2008-10-13 20:11:06 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
*The author would like to note that this piece is a work of fiction; based on true events that occurred in some of the scummier towns of Northern and Central Virginia, not very long ago.
Submitted by nargles (user info) at 2008-10-13 19:51:07 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
holy shit. is this real?