Can’t Stop It, the book and movie opens with:

“You killed him! You killed him! You killed my brother!” The words erupted, each syllable a stiletto forged from grief, her voice ricocheting through the abyss like a desperate plea to an indifferent world refusing to answer.

Even now, those words haunt me. My aunt’s voice—raw, unrelenting—remains etched into my soul. They press against me like a suffocating burial shroud, heavy and unyielding. Each cry, each syllable, a jagged blade, tearing through me again and again and again. Her wail wasn’t just a sound; it was anguish made manifest, slashing through every corner of my existence, obliterating hope, meaning, everything. In its wake, only the abyss remained, an endless void where even the echo of loss dared not linger.

The verdict still lingers in my mind, venomous and unyielding: “You killed him.”

Each word carves deeper into a heart already stripped raw. Time seemed to freeze that day, trapping me in the moment when all hope was stolen, leaving behind an inescapable, unending ache—an open wound refusing to heal.

That ache drags me back, over and over, to the moment it all began, but ended me. The stillness shattered by the piercing screech of tires, a sound that tore through the air like a desperate, unanswered cry. Then came the gut-wrenching crunch of metal—a brutal symphony of destruction that swallowed everything in its path. Chaos erupted in an instant, and I was left trapped in the unyielding grip of fate’s indifference, powerless to stop it.

I’ll never forget my father’s last words, spoken through ragged breaths as he bled out on the pavement: “There you are, son.” A fragile thread of recognition, stretched thin by the weight of finality, snapped as his voice faded into the abyss. And though I’ll never say it aloud—not yet, not now—part of me knows I should never have been where I was that day. A choice I made, so trivial at the time, now looms over me like a shadow, staining every memory with what-ifs I can never escape.

I jolted upright, heart hammering as the memory clawed its way to the surface, refusing to stay buried. The clatter of metal parts crashing onto the Langford factory floor yanked me further into the present, the harsh sound ricocheting off the cold, unfeeling walls like an unwelcome intruder. Frozen in my chair, I blinked at the dim gray world around me, a stark contrast to the vivid ghosts of that day. One moment—a single, unforgiving moment—had unraveled everything, leaving dreams shattered like glass. Their jagged edges still cut deep, still lay just out of reach, and still whispered a cruel truth: some broken things cannot be repaired.

With a weary sigh, I bent to gather the scattered parts, my hands trembling under the weight of the past. As I moved, the bottle of Old Grand-Dad slipped from my overalls and clattered onto the cold cement, its hollow echo spinning in lazy circles, like a compass without direction. It was nearly empty—of course it was—but even so, I reached for its contents, clinging to its fleeting numbness, knowing full well it offered no real escape. Just a futile shield against the unrelenting memory of the day when hope crumbled, and dreams drowned in despair.

The sound of footsteps broke through the haze. Steady, deliberate. My body stiffened.

Glancing up, I saw Mr. Thornton, my factory boss, and Phil Johnson, the foreman, striding toward me down the corridor. Their faces were etched with furrowed brows and tightly drawn lips, their disgust practically tangible. Each step they took reverberated with the weight of final judgment. Thornton’s nostrils flared, and Phil clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening with tension. Their approach was measured, deliberate, like hunters closing in on their prey.

My hand hovered over the bottle for a fleeting moment before my fingers closed around it. The cold metal of my wedding band pressed into my skin, a sharp, unyielding reminder of all I’d shattered—promises made and betrayed, dreams suffocated under the weight of guilt. A love teetering toward lost, nearly buried beneath the rubble of mistakes too heavy to carry.

Professor Remember’s voice on the radio filled the room, weaving through the air like a swarm of bees, each lyric stinging home with a raw, unvarnished truth. God gave me a mind for telling stories, and my baby she calls them lies. She’s been smoking my tobacco and the neighbors they got eyes; they know her kids ain’t got no daddy and my wife ain’t got no prize.

I straightened, my breath catching as raw fear surged through me, unrelenting. The haunting lyrics of Telling Stories drifted from the radio, each line cutting deeper, as if they’d been written just for me. The melody hung heavy in the air, but it was the weight of Thornton and Phil’s footsteps—slow, deliberate, and final—that matched the pounding drumbeat in my chest. Each step echoed louder, chipping away at the last fragile threads of my composure, leaving me exposed, vulnerable, and powerless to stop the reckoning that was bearing down on me.

In the factory parking lot, a scene unfolded that made Jimmy’s heart sink. Mr. Thornton and Phil Johnson, the factory boss and foreman, were forcing his father, Red Rogers, off the loading dock.

Phil’s voice rang out, dripping with scorn. “Look on the bright side, Red. Now you can sleep on your own time, all the time.”

Thornton’s tone was icy, each word a deliberate cut. “Collect your final check tomorrow. For now, get out.”

Red stumbled but quickly righted himself, his face a mask of humiliation. He turned, his eyes bloodshot and hollow, and began walking toward Jimmy, each step heavy with defeat.

As he passed, Red muttered, his voice a slurred whisper. “See what I’ve been telling you?”