There we go...I think this edit reads a lot better. I hope you guys like this...

Of course he blames himself.

It's a natural response. You're driving your best friend to school when suddenly a tractor-trailer comes out of nowhere and connects with the passenger side of your car, completely destroying it and killing your friend in the process. You survive with superfical wounds.

Who wouldn't blame themselves?

Never mind that you looked both ways. Never mind that the driver of the truck had a .027 Blood Alcohol Level and already was responsible for several traffic misdemeanors in his lifetime. Never mind that you stopped when you should've stopped and gone when you should've gone. The truth is, you were the one that drove her, so you're the reason she's dead. End of story.

I would probably blame myself if the roles were reversed.

The papers on Long Island eat this sort of thing for breakfast. Young girl, Mara Price. Just turned eighteen. Humanitarian. Full of life. Going places. Her whole future ahead of her.

At 7:02 in the morning, Declan Morris - everybody calls him Deck - drove to her house and honked the horn, ready to give his best friend a ride to school like he always does.

Who knows what they were talking about during that fateful drive? There weren't any omens today. It was the second day of May, not Friday the 13th. Nothing tragic was playing on the radio...I think the song was "Use Me" by Bill Withers (some high school students we were, listening to an oldies station as opposed to the Z-Morning Zoo). And just happened.

Looking back on it now, the person I feel most sorry for isn't myself, nor is it Deck. It's my Dad. He's a detective with the NYPD. See, my mother fought a rough battle against cancer for about five years, and during the last year, she was in the hospital more often than she was home. At one point, Dad was actually praying for her to die. I was praying right alongside him. And then we'd cry for God-knows-how-long because how fucked up is it that you're praying for the death of your best friend and closest relative?

She finally gave out two years ago, on August 3rd, 2003.

I would watch Dad at the wake, and he seemed to be screaming inside, like he wanted to rip off his own skin and run away to a hole somewhere and never come out.

Sometimes I'd see him while I pretended to be asleep, just standing at my door, looking at me like I was the last person that mattered on this Earth. There seems to be an abundance of dirty minds around that think, "God, how sick" whenever they hear that. These are the people that don't understand...I read this phrase, I think it was in a book, maybe a song; "It's you and me 'till the wheels fall off." I can't think of a better way to put the last two years. The only people we really had was each other, after all, so why not get to know each other a little better?

And now I'm supposedly gone.

I'm gone now, and my father has nothing left.

Which means the fact that I'm breathing and laying naked on the floor of the morgue makes absolutely no goddamn sense whatsoever.