It's been a year now. A year since the life of a young man changed forever. A young man who only wanted a better life for himself and tried to get to England. But he died crossing the motorway in northern France. He might have thought I drove a lorry. That he had enough time to get to the other side. I drove a coach. He wasn't fast enough. I saw him too late. And in an instant his life was over.
I was in shock that day. The adrenalin kept me going. I didn't know what to think or feel, I just knew I had to answer the police's questions truthfully and correctly. Submit to alcohol and drugtests. Allow them to take all the paperwork I had on me.
By 4pm (over 12 hours after the accident) I was told no charges were filed against me. It had been an accident. I was free to go home, come back to France if I wanted. Free. I was collected by one of the bosses at the company who took me home to my parents. Where I explained the whole thing again. The next day I visited my parents' gp. She told me I was good to go. Blood pressure and heart rate both normal. It took another day and a half before I felt like I was me again. Sort of.
I got psychological help. I told people about what had happened. The first time I drove on my own again I noticed everything coming out of the shadows. It lessened fortunately. I became more confident again.
Then I moved to Norway. Started a new life. Forgot about it. A bit. Because it will always be there. In the back of my head. Tucked away. Knowing that whilst I started a new life, he didn't. Couldn't. Because man is no match for a coach.