night of redemption hit and run

Chapter One The Voice Of Guilt

Jenn’s mother’s voice crackled through the speaker, distorted and tinny, but still sharp enough to jab Jenn in her chest like the point of a well-wielded knife.

“I don’t know what you’re doing these days, but it sure doesn’t seem like you’re taking care of those kids right, Jennifer. I raised you better than this. Aren’t you supposed to be their mother?”

Her mother never gave herself time to breathe between jabs, as if pausing even for a second might dull the edge of her words. Jenn glanced at the phone on the passenger seat, the screen glowing with Mom in harsh white letters. She knew she could end it all with one quick tap, but that would mean calling her back eventually. She’d end up listening to all these words again, like some poison-tipped lullaby.

“I’m trying,” Jenn muttered, even though no one was listening. She kept her eyes on the motorway, the wipers slashing back and forth in the rain, revealing glistening patches of road before quickly drowning in darkness again. It was raining harder now, fat droplets hitting the windshield like stones, each splat a reminder of how badly she wished she were anywhere but here.

Her fingers hovered over the bottle of wine in the cup holder. Just a quick sip, she told herself, the same way she’d told herself yesterday, and the day before that. A taste, enough to burn away the shrillness of her mother’s voice in her head. But she hadn’t touched it—yet.

Her mother continued on the speaker: “You know, it was your responsibility to make that home, not mine. I did my part, didn’t I? I worked. I sacrificed. I didn’t get any help from anyone. So what’s your excuse?”

Excuse. Jenn hated that word, and her mother had a way of saying it like it was some kind of weapon, a thin blade she could slip between Jenn’s ribs and twist just enough to make her bleed without actually killing her.

“It’s not an excuse,” she whispered, feeling the words die as they left her lips. Who was she arguing with, anyway? Her mother wasn’t in the car, though it felt like she was, taking up space, crowding Jenn and her thoughts, squeezing until there was barely any room left to breathe.

The rain kept falling harder, blurring the red taillights ahead into smears of color. The motorway was nearly deserted, just a few lonely vehicles in the slow march home, each one wrapped up in its own private world of worries, just like she was. Jenn gripped the steering wheel tighter, her knuckles whitening, her heartbeat thudding in her ears. She wanted to scream, to pull over and just scream into the dark, rainy night, until her mother’s voice was drowned out by her own.

But she didn’t scream. Jenn never screamed, even when she wanted to. Instead, she reached for the bottle, cold glass against her palm, and unscrewed the cap with a quick, practiced twist. She knew she shouldn’t—God, she knew—but she couldn’t seem to help herself. It was like the wine was whispering to her, promising warmth, promising a little bit of peace, promising her mother’s voice would quiet down, if only for a few minutes.

A single, traitorous voice in the back of her mind piped up: You’ve got to cut back, Jenn. That was her husband’s voice. He’d been concerned. She could see the worry in his eyes every time he glanced at the wine bottle on the counter, the empty ones she thought she’d hidden but never quite could. His words were soft, hesitant, like he was afraid to admit what he was really thinking. Or maybe he didn’t have to say it; maybe she could see it all in his eyes. That disappointment. That sense of failure, like she was something he couldn’t quite fix, no matter how hard he tried.

But she didn’t think about that. Not tonight. The bottle was already halfway to her lips.

Jenn took a sip, feeling the wine slide down her throat, bitter and warm, wrapping around the icy ball of tension that lived somewhere near her ribs. She exhaled, the wine working its magic in seconds. Her mother’s voice faded a little, like she was stepping back into the fog. For once, Jenn didn’t feel quite so small.

She took another sip, this one longer, deeper, letting it linger on her tongue. The rain blurred the motorway even more, but the red glow of the taillights was still there, like the eyes of some great monster leading her home.

The bottle wasn’t big, but it was enough. Enough to make her feel lighter, like she wasn’t trapped in this car, wasn’t trapped in this life, wasn’t trapped at all. She smiled a little, her fingers loosening on the steering wheel, and took another sip.

And then a shiver of something dark crept into her mind. A quick thought—just a flash. This is all you’ve become. She could practically hear her mother’s voice murmuring it in her ear.

In that moment, Jenn nearly threw the bottle out the window. She should have. The impulse was there, the urge to chuck it into the rain and watch it shatter against the pavement. But instead, her grip tightened around the neck of the bottle.

Jenn’s eyes refocused on the road just in time to see something in the darkness—a glint of metal, a shadow moving fast. A sharp intake of breath. A hand jerking the steering wheel to the right.

The car skidded, wheels sliding over the rain-slicked pavement. She was veering, headlights slicing into nothing but darkness, and for a single, heart-stopping moment, Jenn felt the car leave the ground, weightless, like she’d been flung from a cliff.

Then came the crash—a bone-jarring, metal-grinding, earth-shaking slam as the car hit the ditch and her body slammed forward, held in place only by the seatbelt digging into her collarbone. The world stopped, and then everything went dark.

When Jenn opened her eyes, she was alone.