My mom. How could I have forgotten, how could I have fucking forgotten? I knew I was doing I was doing something bad, I knew it was something stupid to do. But running away was the only option I had. I had to go and visit my mom and apologize and cry in the proper place. How did I screw up so much? How was it possible for one person to make so many godsdamned mistakes? But it seemed that there were simply no answers to my how questions. The only issue was that I was an idiot. I hate my life. The thought repeated over and over in my head. I hate it. Why can't I ever have things be happy and simple? And when I get those happy moments, they're always fleeting.

I was drunk and my vision was blurred and I wasn't thinking straight. Not the best weather for driving. But no one stopped me. No one had ever stopped me from doing what I wanted. Some friends. But I couldn't really be angry with them, could I? I had only terrified them and they just wanted to give me some happiness. They were the best people in the world. It was me that always made the mistakes.

I had driven this route enough to know where I was. It had been 6 miles, and the overwhelming crushing feeling hadn't left my being. Everyone had their labyrinth of suffering, but mine just happened to have more twists and turns and dead ends than anyone else's. I remember what I had written; straight and fast. That was the only true escape for me wasn't it? I gripped the steering wheel tighter, seeing white form around my knuckles. This was just too much. My whole life was too much. That's when I saw it.

The truck that looked like it was about to go through asexual reproduction from all the ways it had twisted and broken. There were dying flames coming from it, small orange lights like that of a candle. The driver had surely not survived, and the thought entered my mind: that could be me. A quick way to escape the labyrinth. I admonished myself for the thought almost instantly. I had so many things that did go right, even if I was a big screw-up that didn't deserve it. People would care if I died, right?

Then an even more glorious thought came to mind. Why don't I let fate decide? I wouldn't care if I lived or died right now, why don't I test and see whether I should take another breathe. There was a police car in front of the truck. I was yards away from it, plenty of time to avoid a collision. But whatever, I could think stupidly, it's what I had been doing for an eternity. I would hit the squad car. Fate would determine how severe it would be. It would tell me if I should be alive or dead. I would either see my friends, or I would see my mom. I accelerated.

A millisecond after it had happened; I knew I would be dead. The world didn't need me around anymore. The pain was crushing, stinging, encompassing. But it would all be over soon, I thought with relief. I just wish I could have told them goodbye. "Dammit, Pudge." That's when black started to overcome me. I knew in reality it had only been a couple of seconds, but it felt agonizingly slower. And in my last moments, I thought of everyone who had ever loved me. Miles halter, alias Pudge. He loved last words. He would never know mine were about him.