I hadn’t come back here in 14 years. 14 years were I couldn’t bring myself to even acknowledge this wretched lake because every time it would worm it’s way back into my train of thought, a wave of nausea would come crashing down, flooding images of your struggling face on me. Of me turning my back on you as your arms flailed and your head sunk bellow the surface. Of the wind hitting my face as I ran home through the dead of night. Of phone calls about a terrible tragedy. Of false alibis and real tears. Of accusations and interviews and regret. Of my escape and your undoing.