The bad person

We all like to think we're good people. We all like to think we do the right thing. Yes, we make mistakes once in a while, but when it comes to the real thing, the big thing, we do the right thing. That's what separates the good people from the bad people. Bad people have no soul, no conscience. They wear trench coats, hide in corners with bombs and guns, and do bad things because they are selfish and hateful.

But what do you do when you look in the mirror and realize, you're one of them? You thought all along that you were one of the good guys, at least one of the nice ones, but you're not.

These realizations of course don't occur during the evil conduct. They happen afterwards. They happen when someone gets hurt. They happen when you get caught. They happen when someone dies.

When Theresa left the bar that evening at 1:45 am, she thought she was a good person. She was feeling pretty good, at least. She had downed a couple shots of tequila chased by a couple pints of beer. Then she had another shot for good measure. As she got up to leave, the bartender yelped to her, "I'm calling you a cab!" But she yelped back, "Already did!" and watched him hang up the phone as she walked out the door.

Theresa was feeling very drowsy, very loopy, and very drunk. She pulled the keys from her pocket and placed the key into her door. Wrong key. That was the trunk door key. She tried again. There, that opened it. She plopped inside and closed the door shut and took a deep breath.

"Don't drink and drive," a sign outside the bar said. Don't drink and drive. How many times did she hear that? The television messages with the home videos of children being pushed on swingsets that later reveal that this happy smiling child was killed by a drunk driver. The text on every beer or liquor ad that said "Drink responsibly -- Don't drink and drive." She was no fool. She could read. She watched the news. And most importantly, she was a good person.

She stuck the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine groaned beneath her. But aren't you drunk? she heard a small voice ask inside. Are you okay to drive?

Of course, of course she was. Theresa was smart. She was no fool.

Not far down the road, a blue sedan was driving at 55 miles per hour. A small boy and girl lay asleep in the back, the father was reclined in the passenger seat, and the mother was driving steadily, listening to the soft sound of Fleetwood Mac on the radio. Ten minutes later, the bumper of Theresa's car severed the mother and father's heads, and flattened the boy's body. The little girl, who happened to be crouching very low as she slept, survived with a broken arm and cracked ribs.

Theresa, unfortunately, survived. She woke up in the hospital with a concussion. The nurses and doctors and aides surrounded her bed and spoke with clipped words and monotones. Something was not right, she thought. This was later confirmed by a judge during her sentencing. Her father was, unfortunately, a hot-shot lawyer with ties to the local government. Theresa did not get jail time. Instead, she was placed on probation and ordered to perform several thousand hours of community service. The media hated it and loved it.

On no particular day, Theresa took a seat in the break room of the nursing home. She had just wheeled food to the elderly for several hours. "Just breathe," she said. It was what she had told herself so many times before, during the court proceedings, during the media hounding, during her parents' torrential lectures on what a horrible thing she did was, during her daily ritual of scrolling emails that had subject lines like "Burn in hell, Theresa," "Fuck you whore," and "Murderer."

She went to the restroom and looked in the mirror and saw herself, really saw herself, and realized she was not one of the good people. The sight of the mangled bodies was branded in her memory. She murdered a family. She ruined a girl's life. In a simple moment of arrogance, she chose to be bad. She knew it wasn't a "mistake," as she tried to argue, it wasn't an "accident." She knew what she was doing. She knew it was wrong. And she did it. And thanks to her dad, she had virtually no reckoning, no punishment. A father, a mother and a brother were rotting in their graves. And Theresa was above ground and wheeling food to geriatrics.

So many times she called upon that moment, when she sat in her car with the key in the ignition, reading that sign. How simple it would have been to just follow the sign. To let the bartender call a cab. To sleep it off in the car. To do something else, anything else, other than what she actually did. She visited this moment over and over again, wishing she could change it, hating herself for being one of the bad people. She cried herself to sleep every night and wishing she could die, and knowing that so many people agreed.

What made a bad person bad? Was it the choices they made? Their intent while choosing the wrong choice? The consequences? If a person did something bad and no one got hurt, was the person bad? Bad people didn't feel regret, did they? Nor guilt? Jeffrey Dahmer apologized to the families of his victims. Wasn't he still a bad person?

Theresa didn't know what made a bad person bad. All she knew was that she was one of them.