International Writers Magazine:Me
tricky to say at the exact moment I thought I was going to die;
perhaps the moment I buried my head into my hands or perhaps the
instant the car began to revolve. I question whether I infact did
think I was going to die; I say this because my life didnt
flash before me, just a bizarre silence followed by the fierce screech
of the wheels. Your Life flashing before your eyes? I personally
think thats a just a rumour thats managed to slither its way
out of heaven.
It wasnt the
fact that I wasnt dead (it turns out I wasnt..) It was the
fact that I was completely alive. My heart was pulsating, my eyes were
vigilant and my responses seemed to amplify along with my haste. To
some degree I felt superhuman getting out of that steaming wreckage
that I used to call a Fiat Punto. And then came the hysteria, the nervous
laughter at the side of the M6 from the silly, little blonde who presently
thought she was superwoman.
Ham-fisted is how my mother describes me and as much as
I protest I would say that is a fairly accurate observation. My inability
to do anything that involves being coordinated has some what hindered
my progression through life, whether it was humliating myself at dance
classes or simply opening a can of alphabet spaghetti. Its a question
of why I have to be so awkard? Let me assure you this isnt something
that has developed overtime, its been like this since day one.
Apparently I was born hand first: You wanted to shake
the doctors hand and tell him what a good job he was doing
Yes father, that joke wasnt funny at the time and it certainly
isnt funny now. A car crash on the motorway was no shock to anyone.
The bolt from the blue was the ability I had to deal with the situation.
The M6 is a lonesome place for a self-confessed clumsy, awkward nineteen
year old on a bank holiday, yet I was sharp and perceptive; observing
the situation and doing everything... right. To you this may sound absurd:
Of course, you were in a car crash... youre not just going
to sit back and spark up a fag you silly cow. Its not that.
It was how together I was. Im not together.
Im all over the place, but send me knocking on Deaths door
and somehow my pieces accumulate and form this fantastic woman who could
probably perform the Macarena blind-folded, while opening a can of alphabet
spaghetti with her feet. She's gone now; she stayed around for about
an hour or so, but once the car wreckage was taken away so was she.
What will it take to bring her back? That's what Im afraid of.
Am I going to have to go bungee jumping and hope she gives me a cheeky
wink just before I hit the ground? It seems my pieces are scattered
until someone or something puts them back together again.
© Roseanne Stewart
- November 2008
Roseanne is studying Creatrive Writing at the University of Portsmouth
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