And then, silence. A moment.
The moment where you can't find the brake. The moment where your hands fly up in the air to protect your face. The moment of such forceful impact. The moment the glass shatters.
You know the car's still moving. But you can't see the road or the tree you missed by inches. You can feel your tires lift up onto the sidewalk and over the grass. Then you see the building. 10 feet. 7 feet. 4 feet away.
You search for the brake with your foot. Reaching, probing for the horizontal pedal that can help you to not cause further damage.
Once you press the pedal, all of the sounds are awakened again.
The air bag dusts fill the air and for a moment, all you can think of is fire. The door is jammed part-way and you can't push it open all the way. The dust feels like splinters in your throat and you're desperate for pure air.
Someone's shouting to call 911 and two others come by your door. "Are you all right?" they ask with panicked voices. It wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault. "It wasn't my fault!" You keep saying as a statement, but one with uncertainty.
The man and woman stand by your story and a gentleman from the nearest McDonald's brings you a water bottle.
The ambulance sirens can be heard, along with the fire engine's.
Adam. I hold my breath and turn to the inside of the car searching carefully through bits of glass and strewn about belongings from my purse. Adam later tells me he never wants to receive a call like that again.
Within moments, Adam is by my side and an EMT is lifting me onto a gurney to go into the ambulance.
Diagnosis? Bruise to the knee. Lacerations on forearm. Burns on forearm.
No broken bones. No substantial injury.
To God be the glory.