At 13 I had achieved something that I wanted for a long time. I was part of a team that accepted me and would help me grow. I had found something that I loved. That night I was sitting on the bus, it was around ten at night and I was on my way home from the brigade training night. I had begun the climb through the training and one day would be a useful member of an ambulance team. That night on the bus changed my life. I sat in the rear of the bus as it bounced along the road past the railway yards when suddenly the bus stopped, blocked by some sort of commotion. To my horror, laying on the ground, was the motionless body of a young boy. I had never seen a body before, I hoped, inside I cried out hoping he was alive. I was horrified, I was scared, right now I did not know what to do, I just wished I knew, why couldn't I help, I was scared.
The bus ride home was filled with chatter about what we all saw, who the boy was, and speculating whether or not he would live or die. I sat listening feeling ashamed that I did not know what to do, I felt useless. I got off the bus and walked ten minutes in the cold dark towards my home. It was the loneliest and longest 10 minutes I can remember. All I could think about was the motionless body of that child probably not much older than me. What could I have done? By the time I arrived home I felt like I just wanted to cry, scream, or do something to release the horror inside. My dad was home but I said nothing about what I had experienced. I was scared to tell him that I had failed, or at least thats how I felt. The next morning there it was in the news, a young boy had been killed by a car.
I have never told this to anyone. I have carried this all these years. I am now in my fifties. I can still see the motionless body of the unnamed boy the side of the road. God rest his soul and mine.