The accident was three seconds long.
Three seconds.
That’s all it took
to turn a road
into a place my body still remembers.
People asked if I was hurt.
I said no.
Because I could walk.
Because nothing was broken.
Because the blood belonged to somebody else’s panic
and the bruises faded
like they had somewhere better to be.
But nobody asks the nervous system
what it thinks happened.
Nobody tells your hands
that they’re allowed to stop shaking.
Nobody explains to your heart
that the car is no longer spinning.
So now—
every sudden brake light
is a memory with headlights.
Every tyre screech
is a door opening
to the same three seconds.
I flinch at roundabouts.
I count cars.
I sit in the passenger seat
and press my foot into the floor
as if I can find a brake pedal
that isn’t there.
Sometimes I hear the crash
when the room is completely silent.
And that is the cruelest part.
The world looks at me
and sees someone who survived.
I look at the world
and see potential impact.
They told me I was lucky.
I know they meant it kindly.
But luck is a strange word
when your body survives
and your mind becomes the crime scene.
There are no stitches for this.
No plaster cast.
No X-ray that says,
Here.
This is where it hurts.
So I learned to carry an invisible injury
through visible places.
I laugh.
I go to work.
I answer questions.
I say I’m fine
because “I’m remembering the moment I almost died”
is not considered (or socially) appropriate small talk.
And sometimes I wonder
if healing is supposed to feel like forgetting.
I hope not.
Because I don’t want to forget.
I just want to remember
without fucking reliving it.
I want a red light
to become just a red light again.
I want the sound of tyres
to belong to the road
instead of my nightmares.
I want my body
to understand what my mind keeps refusing to believe:
The crash is over.
The car stopped.
I survived.
And this time,
when I close my eyes,
I want the darkness
to be nothing more
than darkness.
(c)BobChristian
