Crash

At first there is nothing—the long, dark, infinite nothingness of oblivion where the conscience takes a backseat to the unconscious. Then there are the smells, crisp, vivid scents of fuel, smoke, ozone, burned rubber, and, oddly out of place, coffee. This is followed by sound, sounds so awful they grate the bone and chill the blood. These are screams—screams of fear, agony, pain, and shock. It isn’t until my fuzzy brain begins to clear that I realize these sounds are escaping from me.

Now the nothingness is gone and awareness begins to creep forth. With great effort I open my eyes. Through the haze of dust and smoke I am aware of several things all at once. The first and foremost to the surface is the excruciating pain radiating from my left shoulder and collarbone. Worst case scenario: either or both are broken. My mental feelers tentatively go to work searching for any other injuries but are unable to reach beyond the initial surge of pain from my upper left side.

I suck in a trembling breath and now I am aware of the sound of approaching sirens. I warily stretch my neck from side to side. Stiffness and dull pain are already setting in the tense muscles of my neck. Dazed, my hands manage to fumble open the seatbelt clasp as my eyes adjust to the sunlight and I blink repeatedly in an attempt to focus ahead of me. Next, I am aware of the windshield. It is fractured though still in one piece—the cracks reaching out in all directions like a crystal spider web. And the air bag has deployed—the dust everywhere is really powder from the air bag. It hangs lifeless and spent from the center of the black steering wheel. Fresh brewed coffee soaks the front of my cotton shirt, knit pants and the center console. The empty cup rests on the passenger seat in a small puddle of cooling liquid.

With painstaking slowness I turn to open the door. It seems to take all of the strength I have remaining to push it open. As it swings ajar it makes a horrendous groaning. I spill out of the driver’s seat clutching the door jamb to steady myself and look around. The intersection, a four-way, is alive with activity. There is an ambulance parked on one corner and two or three police cars are blocking traffic at two of the connecting roads. Several policemen are corralling onlookers back onto the sidewalk while others are diverting traffic down a side street. Paramedics are hurrying toward me and the other vehicle; their orange vests which cover dark blue jumpsuits dazzle my eyes as they reflect in the mid-afternoon sun. There is glass and plastic strewn all over the street and several pairs of skid marks weave a distorted pattern.

On trembling feet I walk around my open door toward the hood of my disabled car. The left side of my silver Honda Civic is unblemished but the right side now resembles an accordion. The once smooth metal is now as wrinkled as a piece of paper that has been crumpled and smoothed out again. The right headlight is a mess of jagged glass and there is a gaping gash where a portion of the fender has been ripped away. Flecks of dark green paint pepper portions of the remaining bumper.

I rub my left shoulder as gently as possible and turn toward the intersection. My eyes are seeing and yet my brain is not believing or understanding. There is no missing what has happened here and yet I feel detached. The reality of the crash has not yet sunk in, has not yet fully broken through the fog that clouds my brain. Adrenaline and general shock have taken over as I continue to survey the bustling activity around me.

A tow truck has arrived and is inching its way around various emergency vehicles; its lights alternately flashing yellow and red. I notice a bright red fire truck has joined the excitement and is parked beside the ambulance, its firemen merely loitering since there is no fire for them to battle. The other car is a late model Toyota and has sustained extensive body damage to its front end. The hood has crinkled like a ruffled potato chip and the bumper has been pushed into the engine compartment, nearly impossible to see. A young woman is standing on the sidewalk across the street. Her thin arms, encased in a cream colored cardigan sweater, are wrapped around her chest in a bear hug. Her shoulder-length brown hair has partially come loose from her ponytail and hangs in wild strands around her face and head. Her blue jeans are torn at one knee. As my eyes focus on her face I notice there is a bloody abrasion on her chin, perhaps from her vehicles air bag. Unbeknownst to me I have an identical scrape on my own chin. Her dark eyes are round, full of surprise and disbelief. Suddenly they swing my way and I see that her pale cheeks are stained with drying tears. Her full lips are quivering. Then our eyes lock and the rest of the world simply fades away. In that moment a thought so frank and sharp that for a second it steals away my breath passes between us. The frightening enormity of what has happened slams into my brain as the fog finally lifts. We are alive. We have survived.