Parallel Collision

The morning was unremarkable. The morning welcomed me with the kiss of a thin fog coiling over the payment and just the whisper of slick frost and ice waiting for the sun to thaw it back into water. The streetlight on the corner flickered like it was getting ready to die out. I tightened my jacket around me and checked my watch while I rushed to the bus stop a block away. Seemingly reading my mind, the bus rounds the corner, headlights splitting the mist.

I picked up my pace, and the bus driver paused in wait at the stop. I ran forward, the coins for my fare sweating in my palm as I climbed the steps. The doors hissed shut behind me as I deposited my fare, and the scent of damp fabric and diesel consumed the space. I dropped down into an empty seat; it rattled every time the bus lurched forward. I leaned my head on the cool glass, telling myself that it's just another Monday morning.

I paused, fumbling the coins in my hand. By the time I'd leaned down to pick up the coins that had fallen from my hand, the bus was barreling past me. I sighed while I watched the red taillights dissolve into the fog, rooted to the curb in my disappointment. The sun wasn't fully up yet, and I was already slipping behind the day.

The bus groaned through the turns. I closed my eyes, contemplating dozing off. The impact hit like a sledgehammer: glass, shrieks, my teeth meeting the floor in a rushed encounter. When I came to, there was blood underneath me. It wasn't all mine. I staggered out through the broken frame of the bus, only to be swarmed by paramedics.

I walked. My shoes scraped along the salt and grit, doing my best not to slip out on the ice that had built up through the night. I cursed myself for missing the bus. I cursed the driver for having no compassion, cursed the clock. When I finally caught the next bus and made it to work. My coworkers stared at me like I had carried the fog into the office with me.

The hospital smelled like boiled coins. They stitched my forehead, checked me for internal bleeding, recommended a dentist to fix my damaged teeth. They pressed papers into my hand, asking who they could call to pick me up. I told them that I didn't have anyone. The waiting room showed live footage of the wreckage I'd stepped out of. The aerial showed the bus crumpled like a dead spider, headlines already crawling across the screen with the death toll. I was there, but not there at the same time.

By noon, the news broke: the morning bus had crashed. Nobody made it out unscathed; some were injured, some worse. I stared at the photographs, hungry for a face I might recognize from my usual commute. The wreckage felt like something I should remember. I felt relief for missing the bus that morning, and then shame for feeling it at all.

I couldn't stand the quiet in my apartment that night. Every sound was a reminder: the thud of the fridge door, the hum of the radiator, the ticking of the clock, all noises that should have been drowned out in the dreary normalcy. I thought about the woman who had sat in front of me, her floral bag soaked red when I'd raised my head. I thought about the driver slumped over at an unnatural angle, held in place by a strained seatbelt.

That night, my apartment felt smaller. The walls felt like they were trying to lean in; maybe to hold and comfort, or maybe to crush me like the people in the bus. The silence felt crowded. I brushed my teeth and spat, and in the sink, I spotted a sliver of glass. My hand trembled, but when I looked closer, it was simply a travelling drop of water refracting the light. I lay awake, imagining brakes screeching outside, sirens in the hallway, the squealing slam of metal folding.

Days passed me by in splinters. I woke to nightmares of sitting on the bus, only to crash again, again, again. My scar itched like it I wasn't allowed to forget. Coworkers who barely knew my name whispered condolences, asking if I was okay. I would nod, then quietly walk away. I felt like I had died along with the others on the bus, but my body was forced to go on. Nobody had let my spirit know that I was dead, and thus, I walked on.

I started arriving to the bus stop early. Too early. I would watch the buses travel past me and wonder what would happen if I had gotten onto it. At work, I caught my reflection in the elevator glass, and for a split second saw a bruise on my forehead that wasn't there. I pressed my fingers into my skin until it hurt, but no mark came up.

I stopped taking the bus. Instead, I walked each day to work. I wouldn't set foot into a moving vehicle again, not if I could help it. Each night ended with me taking off the soaked shoes on my feet. When I would pour the melted snow from my boots, it would flash cherry red for just a moment. I knew I was imagining things. Those puddles would never let me go.

I dreamed of the crash. I wasn't on the bus, but I saw it anyway, like I had been there. When I woke, my hands smelled of metal and diesel. The image of a bloodied floral bag imprinted upon my memories. My shoes by the door were wet, though I hadn't left the house. When I would touch my forehead, I could feel a scar beneath my skin, invisible but undeniable.

We are the same, split only by a moment's choice. I can feel them watching me, living in the quiet spaces between footsteps and mirrors. When I close my eyes, I hear their stuttering breath. When I open them, I see their shadow. I survived, but I don't know which of us was meant to.

We are the same, split by a moment's hesitation. I can feel them moving through me, bleeding memories that don't belong to me. I look in the mirror, and half the time, it isn't me who looks back. I didn't die, but I don't know why I'm still here.