The Day I Ruined My Life-Personal Narrative

Mrs. McCarthy silently leads me to her office. I’ve only been in here once. It was to plan my future. A future I will no longer have. Pamphlets line the walls, offering various solutions to make-believe problems. She sits in her La-Z-Boy desk chair, ripping apart at the seams from old age. To clarify,I’m referring to the ancient counselor, not the chair. “I have brought you here because I have some concerns regarding a particular party over the previous weekend. Do you have any idea what I’m talking about?”
I know exactly what she’s talking about. One night ruined my whole life. I will never have the life I’ve spent my life dreaming about. I blame too many drinks mixed with a tiny black dress that left nothing to the imagination. It’s funny. None of this happened last time I was intimate
with a classmate at a party. That was more of a one time situation- we only spoke about it to argue. “No.” I say, preparing to let a stream of lies to flow out of my mouth like a river with a broken dam.
My mouth is a desert. There are no lies left to tell.. She clears her throat. The clock ticks. My palms sweat. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous.
I better grow accustomed to lying anyway. There’s nothing to lie about, I remind myself. I did nothing wrong. I’m the victim here. This is hard to remember. Hundreds of labels echo through my head, sticking themselves to everyone involved. Sean. Fitzy. Paul. They’re ruined too. Have I ruined their lives? No, I’m the victim. This is hard to remember. Everyone’s telling me it’s my fault. It’s not my fault. Nobody forced anyone to drink or take drugs. This is hard to remember.
Everyone at the party was having a good time. Everyone now is having the worst time. Mrs. McCarthy taps on her escritoire absent-mindedly. She can’t blatantly explain that she sees lies glisten in my eyes. The clock ticks. “I’m concerned about the wellbeing of another student.” Mrs. McCarthy says after a long moment of silence. My fingers find their way along my scalp, tracing circles softly in my mane of golden hair in an attempt to distract
myself. “With all due respect, I don’t know how this relates to me.” I say politely, which proves that I am a respectable person. I often forget this. “There have been photos surfacing on Facebook.” She says. I know about the photos. Pink flesh. Splayed legs. Boys hovering over a girl. The girl consenting to one. The girl oblivious the other three. The girl fainting. The boys were football stars. I know about the photos. I posted them. “Mr. Walsh, I believe that you sexually assaulted Emma O'Donovan.”