Inertia is a bitch.
Newton’s First Law of motion is not the first thing in your mind when you frantically step on the brakes when travelling at three times the speed limit.
The brake marks on the asphalt were measured at 18 metres. Isaac Newton was not on my thoughts at that moment, nor death, nor my family.
My wristwatch was found 10 metres away from the crash site, forever stuck at 3:45am.
The green Malibu ran a red light at the same time I was leading the impromptu street race against a white Ford Sierra, and perhaps its driver chuckled in ecstasy as I catastrophically T-boned the sled of the drunk driver.
Both cars -mine and the drunkard’s Land Yacht– were totaled. Everything from the windscreen in my little Renault Red Rocket on, had been crushed beyond repair.
The force of the impact was such that I dislodged the windscreen from its frame with my forehead as the inertia of the impact swung my body forward. Inertia is a bitch.
Other than a few bruises and a very obvious contusion in my forehead, I escaped the Renault Red Rocket without a scratch. Seatbelts do save lives.
Not long after the impact, perhaps a minute?- a helpful someone helped me unbuckle the seatbelt and walk away from the wrecked remains of my beloved Rocket. The drunkard was also helped out of the remains of his Malibu -and he did not know that he has just cheated death by the slimmest of margins.
In my state of stupor, I swung a fist at him and decked him goodnight. I sometimes can’t control my rage, which worries me often.
But I did not notice that the good Samaritan’s accomplices were scavenging the wreck of both our cars and were generously helping themselves to my wallet, car radio and other assorted valuables. The drunkard’s car and belongings were being scavenged as well right in front of me.
Fucking vultures. Miserable parasites.
-o-
I do not think I have ever been closer to death than at that moment. Or have I?
Maybe the closest was an overdose on amphetamines many years after that. Or was it the weird night in Phnom Penh when I was bashed and assaulted for a mobile phone, and had to drag myself into hospital. Or was it in a crash in Italy, when visiting the tomb of my grand father, with Mr. Fascist and his Italian cousin?
Or maybe it was when a home-made bomb went off prematurely and almost destroyed the wall of my room? Or maybe it was in one of the many, many air travels I have done since I came to this Earth. How many millions of miles have gone smoothly because all the bolts, nuts and pins in the aircraft did their job without coming apart?
Death tends to sneak on us at the least expected moment. As they used to say before the gladiator fights; “morituri te salutant”
I was very lucky that day. Bruised and tired, but lucky to be alive.