Better a Sprained Finger than a Lifeless Body
You know how people say that right before death, all your memories flash before your eyes like a high-speed slideshow, and then you realize that you haven't loved, laughed, and lived enough in your life? That's a load of bullshit. None of that happened to me yesterday.
Maybe that only happens in slow, painful deaths, for those people who actually have enough time to watch a little high-speed slideshow before they pass. Then again, maybe not. As far as I can tell, no one has survived death yet to tell the tale. Maybe I did survive it. It's just that there is nothing to tell.
It all happened so fast. All I can remember was me half-walking and half-running across the street under a red traffic light. And then bam! I was half-sitting and half-lying on the gutter, cursing my two-year-old watch for finally giving up on me and looking for my phone that flew somewhere. There was no pain at first. I struggled to get to my feet as I felt strong hands grasp my arm to help me up. That's when I realized that the strong hands belong to the guy whose SUV almost took my life right after I rendered overtime at work and decided I'd be useful to the world until the day I actually die.
"Ok ka lang?" he asked, mixed fear and concern dense in his black eyes.
I didn't answer. I kept looking around for my phone. He held my shoulders.
"Miss? I'm so sorry. Di kita napansin," he said, pleading.
"Ok lang," I finally blurted out. "Yung phone ko?" At that time, it failed to astonish me how much I cared more about my material possessions than my own well-being.
The guy was the one to pick up my phone from the ground, lying about two feet away from where I fell. That's when I felt my hand scream in pain. I flinched. He handed me my phone.
"Shit, basag. Sorry talaga. Gusto mo dalhin kita sa ospital? Hatid na kita sa inyo? Pwede kitang isakay dito," he said and pointed to his shiny, silver Honda CR-V. I just stared at my phone and died inside.
"Miss?" That's when I felt his grip's message. He wasn't going to let me go.
"Ok lang po. Maaabala pa kayo. Hindi naman ako nasaktan."
Of all the memories of that moment, his face and its play of emotions were what I remember the clearest. His eyes pleaded as mine hid behind dark sunglasses, thankful he can't see them.
"Ok lang po talaga. Gusto ko na lang pong umuwi."
"Ihahatid na kita. San ka ba nakatira?"
"Wag na po. Nakakahiya naman. Ok lang po talaga ako. Sige po. Alis na ko."
For a girl who just spent more than 10 hours combing through medical reports, I was freakishly strong to break the beautiful stranger's grip.
I didn't look back to see if he just stood there and watched me walk away.
When I got home and told my mom the reason why a big chunk of ice is sitting on my left hand, she went crazy. I can only imagine her reaction if I went home cold as ice inside a black body bag.
That memorable moment made me realize three things: (1) better a sprained finger than a lifeless body, (2) never challenge a red light ever again, and (3) tell your mother right away the reason why you're not picking up your phone so she doesn't pour hot on you like melted gold when you get home. In my case, it's being hit by a pretty, silver car with a pretty, 20-something man behind its wheel.
To everyone who just read this or cares or both, I'm still alive.
Peace out.
Maybe that only happens in slow, painful deaths, for those people who actually have enough time to watch a little high-speed slideshow before they pass. Then again, maybe not. As far as I can tell, no one has survived death yet to tell the tale. Maybe I did survive it. It's just that there is nothing to tell.
It all happened so fast. All I can remember was me half-walking and half-running across the street under a red traffic light. And then bam! I was half-sitting and half-lying on the gutter, cursing my two-year-old watch for finally giving up on me and looking for my phone that flew somewhere. There was no pain at first. I struggled to get to my feet as I felt strong hands grasp my arm to help me up. That's when I realized that the strong hands belong to the guy whose SUV almost took my life right after I rendered overtime at work and decided I'd be useful to the world until the day I actually die.
"Ok ka lang?" he asked, mixed fear and concern dense in his black eyes.
I didn't answer. I kept looking around for my phone. He held my shoulders.
"Miss? I'm so sorry. Di kita napansin," he said, pleading.
"Ok lang," I finally blurted out. "Yung phone ko?" At that time, it failed to astonish me how much I cared more about my material possessions than my own well-being.
The guy was the one to pick up my phone from the ground, lying about two feet away from where I fell. That's when I felt my hand scream in pain. I flinched. He handed me my phone.
"Shit, basag. Sorry talaga. Gusto mo dalhin kita sa ospital? Hatid na kita sa inyo? Pwede kitang isakay dito," he said and pointed to his shiny, silver Honda CR-V. I just stared at my phone and died inside.
"Miss?" That's when I felt his grip's message. He wasn't going to let me go.
"Ok lang po. Maaabala pa kayo. Hindi naman ako nasaktan."
Of all the memories of that moment, his face and its play of emotions were what I remember the clearest. His eyes pleaded as mine hid behind dark sunglasses, thankful he can't see them.
"Ok lang po talaga. Gusto ko na lang pong umuwi."
"Ihahatid na kita. San ka ba nakatira?"
"Wag na po. Nakakahiya naman. Ok lang po talaga ako. Sige po. Alis na ko."
For a girl who just spent more than 10 hours combing through medical reports, I was freakishly strong to break the beautiful stranger's grip.
I didn't look back to see if he just stood there and watched me walk away.
When I got home and told my mom the reason why a big chunk of ice is sitting on my left hand, she went crazy. I can only imagine her reaction if I went home cold as ice inside a black body bag.
That memorable moment made me realize three things: (1) better a sprained finger than a lifeless body, (2) never challenge a red light ever again, and (3) tell your mother right away the reason why you're not picking up your phone so she doesn't pour hot on you like melted gold when you get home. In my case, it's being hit by a pretty, silver car with a pretty, 20-something man behind its wheel.
To everyone who just read this or cares or both, I'm still alive.
Peace out.
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