"What do you want?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
I shrugged, looking out the window over the parkinglot.
"Do you want a taco? Something to drink?"
I shrugged again. I really wasn't in the mood for anything.
He leaned across the table and put his finger under my chin, forcing me to look at him. There was concern in his eyes. He was worried about me, I could tell, it was obvious. "What's going on, Liz?" he asked quietly.
I looked at the wall behind him, fighting the tears that were threatening to spill over. I didn't speak. I had nothing to say. No explanation would fix anything. I had nothing to offer that would help, anyway.
"Liz," he said, growing impatient with my silence.
But I still refused to talk.
He sighed. "I can't help you if you won't talk to me."
I simply shook my head. He wouldn't, couldn't understand. There was no possible way. So I didn't respond to his absurd comment.
"Liz," he pleaded.
I ran a hand through my uncontrollably curly black hair. I sighed. I looked out the window. Inside, I panicked.
"Trust me. Please, Liz, I can handle whatever it is."
They would find me, I knew they would.
"I can handle it."
But he couldn't. The guilt of knowing would be too much for him. He wouldn't be strong enough to resist the urge to do what's right.
But I couldn't. I couldn't tell him. I wouldn't do that to him, wouldn't put him in that situation. I wanted to scream the words out at the top of my lungs. I wanted to get it off my chest. I wanted to get rid of the horrible secret that was making me like this.
But I couldn't, wouldn't do that to him.
So I stayed quiet.
"Liz," he was becoming more worried.
I killed someone.
I wanted to tell him, but I couldn't.
"Liz, look at me."
He wouldn't understand. No one could ever understand.
I killed a man.
"Liz, please, just look at me."
I continued looking out the window.
I killed the man who raped me.
"Liz," he was becoming agitated, his voice gradually rising.
He wouldn't understand.
I didn't mean to kill him.
But no one would believe that.
It was an accident. An honest mistake.
"Can you please just look at me, Liz?!" he was practically yelling now.
I was trying to get away from him. He wouldn't let me go. No one know that he's dead. No one knows that I killed him. No one saw me do it.
He would run straight to the police. I knew that he would I knew him well enough. I was so young; I didn't want to go to jail.
"Liz!" he was angry, worried, confused as to why I wouldn't look at him or talk.
I continued to look out the window and didn't say anything. What could I say that would make it better? Nothing.
"Liz, what happened? What's going on?" he asked softly.
Sometimes you can't control what happens to you. Sometimes you have no say. You can't control what happens to you, only how you react. I had a choice here. I could either tell him, or not. Do the right thing, or not. Keep quiet, or not. It was simple, really. But at the same time, it was the most complex decision that I had made in my entire life.
"Liz, tell me, please."
Tears flooded my eyes, started to roll down my cheeks. I finally looked at him. I could tell by his reaction that all of my pain and misery and suffering was evident by the look in my eyes. My breathing slowed. Did I really want to do this?
I looked down at the table. "I'm so sorry," I whispered, my voice cracking.
"Liz, what is it? Why are you sorry?"
"I can't tell you."
"Yes, you can. Trust me."
It was an accident.
No one understands.
It was just an accident.
I had commited a crime. I had killed a man. It was my fault. Because of this, I forced myself to look up again. Tears were still running down my face. "It was an accident," I finally whispered.
Just an accident.