His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. The cabin was now chilly and the windows foggy. He squinted as he peered through the droplets of rain sliding down the glass. Barely able to recognize the silhouette of his home, he let out a primal gut-wrenching scream knowing fully that his actions led him here.
As if explaining the situation to himself, he thought out loud, “the road to hell is certainly paved with good intent, and I’ve parked my car on it.” He snorted while trying to laugh.
He wasn’t a bad man. Just a guy who had trouble looking out for himself.
He collected his thoughts and took in a deep breath. He stowed away any remaining emotion with an aggressive swipe at the now stale tears in his eyes. His fingers found their way back to the wheel and anchored him to that spot. Sitting, silently he stared at his hands. In this brief moment of calm there was a moment of clarity. He had realized that although he is hurting, he is not a victim. Certainly not a victim of circumstance.
Continuing his soliloquy, “my hands are the ones on the wheel. I am the driver. I always had control of my destination.”
In acknowledgement, he expelled a quick breath, “I still do.”
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