He could only stand there and watch in horror as the car rolled forward. The was no one else in sight and the little boy wouldn't get out of the way in time. The car bumped up and down and the boy cried out for a few moments and then all was silent.
There was nothing he could do, nothing he could have done, and so he walked away. The empty car and broken boy were swallowed up in the night behind him. He couldn't remember how he got home. He just woke up in his bed the next morning, still dressed and dirty from the previous day.
There was nothing about it on the next days news. He wondered how long it would be before someone found out. Would they be able to trace him to the scene? His heart thumped in painfully in his chest and he skipped breakfast in the hopes of calming his knotted stomach.
Work was unbearable. People laughing, talking, working. All he could do was sit and stare at the screen. And then that night when he tried to fall asleep he kept seeing the little boys face, pleading with him to do something, to save him. The screaming still echoed in his mind.
The next day was the same. He couldn't eat. He couldn't sleep. His supervisor sent him home early to get some rest, thinking he was sick. That night he wrote down a confession but he was too sick now to deliver it. He'd have to wait until morning. For now, he let himself dry heave. Fighting would only prolong it. His heart pounded harder and it wasn't until midnight that his stomach stopped convulsing. And shortly after, his heart stopped hurting.
The next day his supervisor called to check in on him. No answer. The day after that the supervisor called again. No answer. On the third day with still no answer, the supervisor called the police. They found his body curled on the floor. He'd been dead for over two days. They found the confession he'd written but when they got to the place he described they found nothing there.
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