This is the blink before time slows down. Chaos fills the eardrums with the squeal of tires before the crunch of metal on metal before the sound of skull through windshield before the eyes open again mid-flight.

blink.

Somewhere between the ribbon-slicing of neck skin and first scream, there is quiet as limp body rides the air current between the two vehicles. This quiet is embraced tightly for milliseconds as the body curls up like a human cannonball. The highway and the other cars around are perfectly visible and this is more finite than slow-motion.

blink.

Spine connects with the back window of the car in front; it’s hard to distinguish the sound of broken bones from the sound of broken glass within this miniscule time frame. The cheek is overcome with a warm, embryonic coating. Neither arm will move to wipe it from the face that stares into the clouds polka-dotting the baby blue sky above.

blink.

A swallow, a gasp for air before the scream comes; the eyes widen as the pain rises to the surface, raping every axon and dendrite available.

blink.

‘Have the cars stopped?’

blink.

‘Is help on the way?’

blink.

‘I can’t seem to reach my phone.’

blink.

The sound of sirens.

blink.

The feel of make-shift breathing apparatuses.

blink.

The nausea of being rolled beneath perfectly spaced ceiling lights.

blink.

The hazy view of doctors scrambling around the bed.

blink.

The far off sound of a solitary, beepless tone.

blink.

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