"daniel"
05/11/2005, 01:20

Okay, in two previous entries I have kind of mentioned this incident in passing without fully revealing what it is. I have also had an email from someone asking what I meant by it. So, now that I have some beer in me, (though not too much to type I might add) I thought it only fair to share, since I hate it when people drop hints of something, and then won't tell a story. The guy featured in this story, other than myself, I will call Daniel. That is not his real name, but I want to protect people who may know him from any pain or upset, should they, in the unlikely event of them happening upon here, know who he is. My parents had met Daniel once or twice, but back then, being the secretive little fucker that I was, they didn't know about the closeness we shared. I just used to go out and spend hours of each night doing stuff I wouldn't dream of telling my parents about. I know they used to worry, and I didn't care, selfish bastard that I was then.

Daniel was my best buddy at the time. Ten years ago, we were both aged seventeen, and did loads of stuff together. We shared our most intimate stories about girls, told each other everything, even the things that would be considered uncool to everyone else. We didn't care. We knew each other too well to make each other feel like shit about things that were important to us.

Daniel and I, like most young males our age, were obsessed with cars, and he was pleased as fuck when he passed his test, and his parents bought him a set of wheels. We used to go out cruising into the early hours, meeting up with people sometimes, just to shoot the shit, but most of the time we just drove around in his ride, thinking that we were the coolest dudes that ever lived. We'd just hang out and smoke cigarettes and enjoy the life of an average carefree teenager. Life was cool.

One night we went to the car park of the local supermarket, to practice some tricks in his ride. Daniel was a demon behind the wheel, and loved to push the car to its limit. We thought we were invincible, that nothing could touch us. We squealed around the car park, Daniel mashing the gas for all it was worth, doing donuts and flooring the car to see how fast it could go. Even now the event remains hazy in my mind, but I remember that, somehow, he lost control of the car for just a second, and we went head first into one of the concrete stantions in the car park. There was an almighty bang as metal collided with concrete, and I dunno whether I felt it, or whether it was my imagination, but I seemed to feel the front of the car just collapse in on itself, and as the engine ground to a juddering halt, I opened my eyes to see the drivers seat empty. I still to this day don't know what made me put my seatbelt on, but I had. The glass of the windscreen, or what was left of it, was jagged, like a spider's web, and I sat there for a second, or perhaps it was longer, before flinging my seatbelt off and managing to struggle out of the car, despite the pain wracking my entire body and making me stumble as I tried to run. Daniel was lay on the ground, some distance from the car, motionless.

Luckily there were some payphones outside the supermarket, and I ran to one and dialled 999, managing to get a garbled message to the operator about what had happened. I slammed the phone down while the guy was still speaking, a sudden moment of reality hitting me and making me wonder what the hell I was doing speaking to a stranger on the phone in the early hours of the morning. I struggled back to the car, seeing smoke rising from the front of the it, never thinking that it could have exploded or anything, and saw Daniel. Turning him over, I could see he was in a mess. His face was covered in blood, and he had glass on his clothes. I brushed it off wildly, cutting my hands to hell but feeling no pain, and cradled him in my arms, like a baby. He gave these little shallow breaths, and groaned, like he was trying to speak but couldn't manage the words. I don't know how long I sat there, stroking his hair, telling him he was going to be okay. I repeated those words over and over, willing myself to believe them. However, he wasn't okay. He stopped breathing and groaning, and I just knew. I tried some idiotic attempt at mouth to mouth, like I'd seen on television, though I didn't know what the hell I was doing. I was still trying when the ambulance tore up to the scene. I remember one of the ambulance officers dragging me away and speaking to me in a soothing tone, draping a blanket over my shoulders while I sobbed and fought to catch my breath. I was so cold.

We got to the hospital, and they checked me over, saying I had shock, but that nothing was broken. I was lucky, apparently. Daniel wasn't. His parents showed up finally, and they told me he was dead. I remember seeing his mother and father screaming with distress, finding out that their only child had been so cruelly taken from them. I insisted that I didn't want to stay in the hospital, that I felt fine, when in reality I felt anything but. I had to answer questions from the police, who were very kind and told me that none of it was my fault. The car wasn't stolen, Daniel was a licensed driver and should have known better, etc. Maybe he should, but so should I.

I spent the next days in limbo, mostly staying in my room and sleeping, telling my parents I felt unwell, and they believed me, bless them. Daniel's parents wanted to speak to my parents but I refused, telling them that they would only get upset, and that it might make them ill. Which was a total lie, seeing as my parents are cool, and probably would have just hugged me tight and told me everything would be okay. But I didn't want sympathy. I didn't fucking deserve it. I was just a no good "reformed" car thief who took drugs and didn't care if he dropped dead because of it, such was his fucking stupid outlook on life. Daniel never took drugs, he thought they were for wankers, and constantly got on my case about it.

Of course I didn't transform into a goody two shoes after that. I just took more drugs, almost willing myself to die from it, such was my reckless abandon. For months afterwards, I couldn't stop that horrid, unwelcome thought. It should have been me.

When my parents went down south to take care of a sick relative for a while, I opted to stay with my aunt and uncle so I could continue with my job. I had not long been a chef then, and wanted to carry on doing it, for some strange reason. My aunt and uncle weren't stupid, and I was too blase about life to hide my stash of drugs from them. Speed, ecstasy, and anything else I could lay my hands on, I took in droves. My aunt found my stash, and one night, there was a huge confrontation about it. I begged them not to tell my parents, they were already under stress what with dealing with my aunt, who was close to death, and, for a moment, I felt so bitterly ashamed of myself. But did I want to stop this rollercoaster ride to destruction? I don't know. To this day I still don't know. My uncle paid a hell of a lot of money to put me through rehab, and I gave it my best shot.

I sat through hours of group therapy, having my life unravelled before the eyes of strangers, telling my tale of destruction, and how I felt wretched and blamed myself for Daniel's death. The people there were sympathetic, and listened while I cried, shouted, and threw myself into the most ugly fits of rage.

My mind clear of drugs for the first time in a long time, I began to see that perhaps it wasn't my fault. It could just as easily have been me, or even both of us that lost our lives that night. If, for some reason, that evil old bastard fate had chosen to let me live, then didn't I owe it to Daniel, to my parents, to myself, to carry on with life, instead of playing russian roulette every time I swallowed a pill or shoved powder up my nose? I came to the conclusion that yeah, I did. And since that three weeks, I've never looked back. To this day, hardly a soul knows of my drug addiction, and what caused me to become such a cliched drug taking fucker, i.e. Daniel's death.

I now know that I have to be grateful to my aunt and uncle for each day that I'm alive, and for saving my loving, cherished parents from worrying to death about the life of their youngest child. They are wonderful people, and they don't deserve what I (nearly) put them through.

So now, every time I mash the gas in my ride, I think of Daniel. It might have stopped my love of cars, made me sedate and careful on the road. And I am, most of the time. But everyone likes to cut loose once in a while. And you have the right to call me the most pathetic bastard in the universe if you want, but I mash my ride in honour of Danny, who died at seventeen. I wish he could be here now. We'd still be out cruising, going to metal clubs and chatting to babes. I love him still, ten years later.

Danny, wherever you are bro, if you can see this, I hope to fuck that you're happy, (even though I changed your name,) getting drunk, sleeping with the foxiest babes and flooring the gas in the ride of your choice. I love you bro.

And to my fellow D'landers: Thank you for letting me get that off my chest. I don't like to bring you down, and normal service will resume tomorrow. I just had to say what has been held within my heart for such a long time.

Thank you for listening.