What I Chose Not to Keep

I keep touching the empty space where the camera used to be. It is such a stupid little gesture, like checking for a tooth that has already fallen out, except now the missing thing has Elias in it. His van, my cracked lens, the seconds I thought were mine to control. I handed the recording over, and part of me expects that surrender to taste like relief. The sharper part is already asking whether I gave away the only proof that could make me feel safe.

Tamsin gave her statement freely. That phrase keeps bothering me. Freely means she could withdraw it. It means her freedom is not something I can defend on her behalf if I become greedy about being right. I wrote down what I would refuse to answer for her, but the truth is I am afraid she may decide I am not the person she wants beside her when the police start pushing.

My shoulder aches more every time I lift my arm. I wanted the evidence to be worth something. Now I want Tamsin's freedom to be worth more than my satisfaction, even if she never forgives me for making her statement part of my escape.

The house my mother is losing pulls at me through every quiet corridor. I do not want to arrive with only a warning. I do not want to arrive empty-handed and pretend that protecting Tamsin is the same thing as helping my mother. Those are two different kinds of failure, and I am tired enough tonight to confuse them.

I survived losing control of the camera. I am not sure I survived liking it.