bones

There are no streetlights on the main road from Centreville to Chestertown. Driving late at night means you can see the expansive sky stretch across from right to left - a giant dark canvas twinkling with scattered stars. It is peaceful.
I tend to speed a little, maybe 5 mph over the limit, when I drive this road. I know it so well. The other night, cruising over the hills and around the sharp corners, I ran into something. An animal. A possum. I had turned off my brights while passing a car driving in the opposite direction and had sped over the hill, only seeing the road right in front of me, when instanteously there appeared some object in the road. Before I could react, I heard the crunch of bones beneath my drivers side tire and the felt a bump that barely affected my car's momentum.
I have never killed an animal while driving. I have received the lectures about watching for deer and about not stopping for the smaller creatures because you could run off the road and hurt yourself...
I think I might rather run off the road.
In shock, I kept my foot on the gas pedal. I couldn't breathe. The possum was probably about the size of my dog.
I hit an animal like my dog.
Hit it and kept driving.
The sound of breaking bones rang in my head. I began to hyperventilate.
Then, I began to cry.

I couldn't help myself. I felt like I had just committed a crime. I was a murderer. I could envision the blood on my tire and it made me nauseous.
I didn't know who to call. I didn't know if I even wanted to talk to anyone. I couldn't stop crying.
I called a friend, but as soon as he answered the phone I could tell this wasn't the right phone call to make. I could hear the party in the background - voices and music and dancing. I was immediately embarrassed but he could already hear my gasping sobs. I faked something about needing alcohol and mentioned that I had just hit an animal. He told me to come to the party - it would all be ok.
Yeah, ok... and I ended the call.
Still crying, I called my house. I didn't think anyone would be awake, but my father's scratchy voice answered the phone and asked me what was wrong as soon as he heard me speak. I told him about the possum. He logically reminded me that this happens all the time, it wasn't my fault, and that he was glad I was ok. He stayed on the phone with me the rest of the way back to school - a whole ten minutes - which is probably a new record for our phone conversations. I began to feel guilty for calling so late, but in his strange way, Dad was cheering me up. He started asking me about the ncaa's and quoting the most recent statistics.

I finally parked my car, grabbed my laundry out of the back, and walked into my dorm. I prayed not to run into anyone, since I knew my eyes would be red and my cheeks puffy from crying. Fortunately, I didn't.
As soon as my suite door closed the tears came again. I didn't know what to do. It was more than a possum, I knew that. These tears were about more than broken bones.
I couldn't be alone - that much I understood - but the party seemed particularly unappetizing.
I texted an old friend: I need a friend and some beer. You up?
Of course: he replied. Come on over.

We stood on the front steps of his building; he dragged on a cig, standing upwind of me to be polite, while I toyed with a stella artois. The silence was comfortable, and there were no more tears. I breathed in and began to talk.