What happens to your life after you accidentally kill a man?

I'm an accidental killer. Thousands of Americans share this shame with me. How can you recover from the trauma after accidentally killing a man?

It says: David Peters

There's not a second, even when I'm laughing at a party, which I don't think about”, says Pam Uhr.

It was a hot summer day, just weeks after it ended last year of high school. Uhr and her friends had taken the afternoon swimming in a pond near their hometown of Texas. She was giving her car to the house on a village street with her two passengers when the first car wheel had slipped. She had overreached. Car was turned. Another car coming across, behind a hill, hit a car in passenger space, and everything was black.

She woke up in a hospital. None of the sisters or doctors would reveal the condition of the two boys. Her father had hit her face - they're dead.

A few years later, after Uhr had married and given birth to three sons, she had simply been emotionally absorbed in the thoughts that all three of her sons would soon die as a retribution of universal responsibility, Pryscope follows.

Shake your head while I hear her confession. It's very similar to the other stories I've heard over the years dealing with accidental murders. First, right after the accident, buddy. Then embarrassing memories of what happened. Then the thoughts of a retaliatory being brought to the head of an accidental killer like Damocles' sword at any moment, even when you're laughing at a party.

Is there any possibility that people will overcome the trauma of accidental murder? I think a lot about that answer. I'm an accident killer myself.

I was 19 years old, just weeks after I left the army and had just started my first year at a Catholic college in West Virginia. It was Sunday night, my roommate and I were ready to go to Church according to college rules, jacket and tie. There were two young men who were going through the evangelistic fundamentalism of our youth, aiming at what many evangelists consider to be one of the most sacred services - Sunday evening.

I was driving my 1973 car that I had recently fixed. At about 5: 30 p.m., as I entered a bend, the sunlight struck my eyes. I'm trying hard to see and hide my eyes behind the rear shadow. I felt powerless to control my car and tried to get it back on track. When I turned right, I saw a red Jeep in that beam. I was back on my way, but I was a little back.

My car driver's side crashed into an iron plate and a concrete side. The iron tablet immediately fell on the front of our car, blowing its tires and breaking my knee. After that, they crashed into the next beam.

The other thing I remember is when I sat in the car, watching if my roommate was still alive. He was fine. I got up and felt a lot of pain in my leg. All traffic stopped. There was another car that crashed across the street. Then I saw a motorcyclist lying on the ground.

A woman with a helmet on her head was a few feet away. Her neck had taken a strange position and somehow knew she was dead. Then I saw another man lying on the ground and I went straight to him. He was lying in his belly, and I could see the blood at the center of his feet pouring into asphalt.

He looked at me and he told me, “I told him I was sorry. I'm sure I'd given it a few times when we looked in the eye. I took off my tie and tried to stop the blood.

Later, at the hospital, my sisters took pieces of glass off my hand and grabbed my knee. They told me it would hurt for a while. It hurt. That's how I wanted it to hurt. I wanted to feel different from believing I should be dead instead of that woman. /Periscopi/

Full text in “The Guardian”