It was 3:09 p.m. when we crashed.
This was my first encounter with death. It was harrowing in a sense, yet never did it seem unnatural to see the torn, mangled flesh of my friend intertwined with the broken metal and glass of the wreck. I tried to reach for him, but I found myself imprisoned between the seat and windshield. My neck was contorted and stretched uncomfortably towards the driver’s seat. My chest heaved, but the words wouldn’t come out.
“……..”
My ears were ringing; my mind was asunder yet, despite it all, the images of his lips moving are scorched into my memories. He called out to me, but I couldn’t hear a damned thing.
What if I could’ve saved him? What if he was telling me what to do to save myself?
His lips flapped on in vain as I sat looking at him, clinging to consciousness. My eyes drifted aimlessly, eventually falling on his; the iridescent emeralds set artfully against his tanned face, now strained and bloodshot. His face was ravaged, smeared with blood like a child’s first canvas to finger paint.
Is all of that his, I mused, for if I couldn’t see my body how was I to know I hadn’t splattered like a gusher on impact with the median. My eyes drifted lower.
A piece of steel impaled him just below the ribcage. The scraps of his golden flannel pulsed around the wound. My eyes darted back up. I saw his lips move again, gentler this time, as if whispering sweet words to a lover.
“Shane…”
His hand trembled as he pointed towards me. Though, as his lips contorted to form the next words, he fell limp.
The pulsing around the wound had stopped. A small trickle of blood maneuvered its way out of his lips and began to drip onto the wheel. His glistening eyes now fell matte and lifeless on me. The dreams that might have been slipped their bonds and what remained was a Picasso-esque nightmare. Beautiful, yet unfathomably void of sense or reason.
It was 3:30 p.m. when he was deemed D.O.A. I suppose we’re not meant to understand the necessity of death.
The next moments came in waves as I floated in and out of consciousness. I remember fluorescent lights moving rapidly above me.
Blink.
I was being intubated. I imagined it would’ve hurt, if I could’ve felt anything in my body.
Blink.
The operating table. Shards of metal had slipped through my ribcage. At least now I knew why I couldn’t speak earlier.
Blink.
I felt my heart growing tired. Slowing in pace, the sensations I felt were otherworldly. I existed in this plane and the next, a dull tingling as I felt my essence slip away into the ether. I felt so much fear. I hadn’t fully lived. I never married. I never had children. I never even finished college.
I worried for my family; how would they ever recover from this? I felt their pain as my own as I laid on the cold operating table dying. I always hoped to die when I was older, surrounded by family. We don’t always get what we wish for I suppose.
Blink.
Nothing.
Blink.
It was 4:10 p.m.