The sound came before the pain.
Metal screamed against metal, a violent shriek that tore through the air and froze time itself. Then everything spun—lights, shadows, shattered glass—until the world slammed into silence. For a moment, there was nothing at all. No sky. No ground. Just darkness and the taste of blood.
When consciousness returned, it came with terror.
She tried to move, but her body wouldn’t listen. Her chest felt crushed, her breath shallow and burning. Somewhere nearby, people were shouting—voices blurred, panicked, urgent. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder, closer, like an approaching storm.
“I just want to live,” she whispered, though it came out as a broken sound, barely louder than the wind.
Her car lay twisted on its side, one door crushed inward, the other torn away. Rain began to fall, cold drops mixing with blood and oil on the pavement. Lights from passing vehicles flashed over her face, illuminating wide eyes filled with disbelief. Just minutes ago, she had been thinking about dinner, about a phone call she forgot to return, about ordinary things that suddenly felt like treasures she might never touch again.
Hands reached for her.
“No—please—wait,” she cried as they tried to move her. Pain exploded through her body, sharp and blinding. She screamed, clutching at the air, fingers grasping for something solid, something familiar. “Please… I don’t want to die. I just want to live.”
Her words cut through the chaos.
A paramedic froze for half a second, meeting her eyes. In them, he didn’t see panic alone. He saw raw human fear—the kind that strips everything else away. He squeezed her hand gently.
“You’re not dying,” he said firmly, though he didn’t know if it was true. “Stay with me. We’re going to help you.”
But when they began to pull her free from the wreckage, terror swallowed her whole.
The moment they lifted her, something inside her screamed that this was wrong—that this movement was dangerous. She sobbed uncontrollably, begging them to stop, to let her stay right where she was. Her body shook violently, not just from pain, but from the horrifying instinct that survival was slipping out of her grasp.
“I just want to live!” she cried again, louder this time, her voice breaking apart. “Please—please don’t let me die.”
People nearby turned away, tears in their eyes. Strangers who didn’t know her name felt their hearts crack open at the sound of her voice. In that moment, she wasn’t just one injured woman. She was every human fear given sound.
The stretcher was ready.
As they pulled her away from the car, she reached back instinctively, fingers stretching toward the twisted metal that had almost killed her. It made no sense—but trauma rarely does. The car was familiar. The stretcher meant uncertainty.
Her cries softened into sobs as exhaustion began to take over. The world blurred again. Faces hovered above her—kind eyes, focused eyes, worried eyes. Someone brushed wet hair from her face. Someone else spoke calmly, explaining every step, anchoring her to the present.
“Stay awake,” a voice urged gently. “Talk to me. What’s your name?”
She swallowed hard. “I… I don’t want to go,” she whispered. “I’m scared.”
“I know,” the voice replied. “But you’re doing great. You’re so strong.”
Strong.
She didn’t feel strong. She felt small, fragile, and painfully aware of how thin the line between life and death truly was. She thought of her mother’s laugh, of unfinished dreams, of words she had never said. Regret wrapped around her chest tighter than any seatbelt ever had.
The ambulance doors closed with a heavy thud, sealing her inside a bright, humming box that smelled of antiseptic and fear. The siren started again, louder now, vibrating through her bones. Every bump in the road sent waves of pain through her body.
She cried quietly, tears sliding into her hair, her hands clenched into fists.
“I just want to live,” she whispered, no longer begging anyone in particular—just the universe itself.
In the hospital, everything moved fast. Doctors spoke in clipped sentences. Machines beeped and flashed. Scissors cut away her clothes. Cold hands pressed against warm skin. She wanted to scream, but her voice felt trapped somewhere deep inside her chest.
Then, suddenly, she was alone.
Not truly alone—there were nurses nearby—but the noise faded, and exhaustion pulled her under like a dark tide. Before she slipped into unconsciousness, one last thought surfaced:
Please… let me wake up.
Hours passed.
When she opened her eyes again, the world was quiet. White ceiling. Soft light. A steady beeping sound that told her she was still here. Her body ached in ways she couldn’t yet understand, but she was breathing. Alive.
A nurse noticed her movement and smiled gently. “You’re safe,” she said. “You made it.”
The words didn’t sink in right away. Made it where? Made it how? Tears filled her eyes again, but this time they were different. Heavy. Relieving. Real.
Later, a doctor explained the injuries—broken bones, internal bruising, a long road to recovery. She listened, nodding slowly, fingers gripping the blanket like it was the only thing keeping her anchored to this world.
Recovery wouldn’t be easy. Some nights, she would wake up hearing metal scream, feeling hands pulling her away, her own voice echoing in terror. Some days, fear would return without warning.
But she was alive.
And that mattered more than anything.
Weeks later, when she could finally stand by the hospital window, she watched sunlight spill across the street below. Cars passed. People laughed. Life continued, ordinary and miraculous all at once.
She pressed a hand against the glass and whispered the words that had once been a cry of terror—now a quiet promise:
“I just want to live.”
And this time, she knew she would.
