Powerless

See this picture? Pretend those silly people aren't standing there, and it's actually you, or me, or your loved one(s), whatever, doesn't matter. We'll use me as the example since it'll be easier to understand.

I am stationary as cars fly by. My speed to theirs is an impossible ratio. 50 MPH, 60 MPH, 70, 80, 90; it doesn't matter. The speedometer could break and it wouldn't make a difference. The tide of flashing lights is against me, wind whipping by me, a current of punctuality. I try to move, to avoid the mirrors and sides of the yellow taxis and shiny, expensive cars, but they're closing in, scraping my arms and leaving paint on my legs. I am in slow motion, powerless to the oncoming pain.

I brace myself. I can see it, several yards ahead, aimed toward me like I was its future lane of travel. It merges into my side, breaking bones and cracking ribs, eager to make it to the final destination. The means do not matter.

I gasp. The pain is unreal, yet slowly increasing. Everything is in slow motion, except for when the car hits. A slow approach, a fast, painful impact, and a tedious seeping of pain throughout my body.

Looking up, more yellow cars are on their way. I am an obstacle, but not a permanent one. Not metal; closer to glass is how I shatter.

The cars bear toward me. One clips my foot, another my opposite side, and finally a direct hit to the left side of my body. It spins me away, collapsing, onto the street. I am the connection between two lanes of travel now. It's only a matter of time until the severance is delivered.



The slothful approach of yellow destruction; the black rubber casually nearing my body. The gradual cringe searches the outskirts of my body, bringing everything in for protection.

And then the end. A fast, devastating end to a terrifying nightmare. The spinal damage creates no pain, and as I slip away, the cars move on. No looking back, no regrets, no thoughts.