Anonymous Confession
i allegedly did two hit and runs and went to jail for it
Yeah, I did. I saw the title and it’s like a punch to the gut every time I read it, even though I typed it myself. “Allegedly” is a funny word. It’s what they say in court, what the papers print. But I know. I know what happened, and it wasn’t an allegation. It was real.
The first time was stupid. So stupid. I was young, dumber than a sack of bricks, and thought I was invincible. Had a few drinks at a buddy’s place, not hammered, but definitely over the limit. It was late, dark backroads, and I clipped something. A mailbox, a garbage can, maybe a parked car’s mirror. I didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down much. Just a jolt, a sickening scrape, and my heart slammed into my ribs. The car behind me flashed its high beams, but I just floored it. Drove home, shaking, parked the car, and spent the night staring at the ceiling. In the morning, I checked the car. A small dent, some paint transfer. Nothing major. I polished it out, convinced myself no one saw, and buried the whole thing so deep I almost forgot about it. Almost.
That was the problem. Getting away with it. It didn’t feel like a relief; it felt like a trap. I walked around with this secret, this heavy thing in my chest. And then it happened again.
A few months later. Middle of the day, busy street, but I was distracted. Arguing with someone on the phone, not paying attention. The light changed, I looked up, and then I felt it. A thud, a bump, and a glimpse of something falling in my rearview mirror. A person. Not directly under the wheels, but definitely hit by the side of the car. They stumbled, fell. My blood ran cold. Everything in me screamed to stop. To get out. To help. But the panic, that same primal, stupid panic from the first time, just took over. The memory of getting away with it, that dark little voice, whispered, “Just keep going.”
And I did. I drove away. Swerved through traffic, heart hammering like a drum solo. I didn’t look back. Didn’t even check my mirrors properly. Just drove until I was miles away, pulled into a random parking lot, and sat there, barely breathing. I was hyperventilating, crying, trying to make sense of what I’d just done. I called off work, went home, and spent the next few days in a daze, watching the local news like a hawk, terrified of seeing my car, my face, my name.
They got me three days later. A witness had seen enough, remembered enough. My car had specific damage, even though I’d tried to clean it up. The police came to my door, quiet, professional. The look on their faces told me everything. No denying it. No making excuses.
Jail. It wasn’t what you see on TV. It was boring and terrifying and soul-crushing all at once. The first hit and run came up too, during the investigation. The police connected the dots between some minor, unsolved incidents in the area and my previous history. It felt like my past crimes, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, had just stacked up. I was convicted of two counts of hit and run, among other things. I spent a little over a year locked up.
That time behind bars… it forces you to think. To replay every single stupid decision. I thought about the person I hit, endlessly. The fear, the pain I must have caused. The absolute cowardice of my actions. I never found out their exact condition, only that they recovered from their injuries. A small mercy, I suppose, but it doesn’t diminish the guilt. Not one bit.
I’m out now. I work a quiet job, keep to myself. Every day is a conscious effort to be better, to be present, to not run from anything, no matter how scary. The secret isn’t a secret anymore, not legally. But the full confession, the sheer weight of knowing what I did, how I failed, that’s something I still carry. This is me, finally saying it all out loud, to no one and everyone. There’s no undoing it, no going back. Just forward, with this knowledge, and the hope that I can somehow make amends by living a life that proves I’m not that scared, stupid person anymore. Or at least, I’m trying not to be.