TWENTY-SIX

The 2022 C 300 4MATIC Mercedes Benz Sedan can reach 60 miles per hour in six seconds. It has a 4-wheel independent suspension, a 2.0L inline-4 turbo engine with mild hybrid drive and a 295 pound-feet of twist at 2,000 revolutions per minute torque. It seats 5 passengers at a time and has 36 inches of legroom in the backseat. It flaunts a 12.3-inch digital instrument cluster, and an 11.9 touchscreen central multimedia display. Its PRE-SAFE® features detect unstable movement while driving, automatically tightening seat belts, and adjusting front seats in preparation for a collision, and its ATTENTION ASSIST® technology monitors driving behavior to detect and alert for signs of drowsiness. It has a curb weight of 3,957 pounds.

You actually don’t know if it is a 2022 C 300 4MATIC Mercedes Benz Sedan that runs you over because the driver never comes back for you. You actually can’t even tell that it is a C 300 4MATIC model because you are face down on the crosswalk, and all you can see is the road. Later, all a police investigator can tell you that it is a silver Mercedes Benz Sedan, and Google will inform you that the C 300 4MATIC is the most common model of a Benz Sedan.

Right now, all you can feel is a tire. It crawls over the middle of your back, forcing your ribs to concave into the asphalt. Like when your sibling or older cousins would step on you when you were a kid while you were watching TV. Except now it is 989.25 pounds of a 2022 C 300 4MATIC Mercedes Benz Sedan pressing you down into the earth. (Or maybe it is the 2016 C 300 4MATIC Mercedes Benz Sedan?) You are wedged between the tire and the asphalt but you don’t know which one of them is pressuring you to give it all the oxygen you have stored in your body. You just feel your breathe escape you and you are too stunned to ask it to come back. You feel cracks from deep within your chest. They are clean cracks. Not like stepping on shattered glass or prying loose teeth from bleeding gums. Like stepping on a twig. Like candy canes and wishbones. You know you are in pain, but you do not feel it yet.

You think to yourself oh my god, was that a car? just as the second tire begins to make its way over your lower back. You are not more prepared this time. You feel more cracks. You are entirely out of air now, and all your body can think to do is keep gasping. You know you are in pain, but you do not feel it yet. You use your upper body to pull yourself desperately towards the curb after frantically realizing that you will keep getting run over if you do not get out of the crosswalk as soon as possible. You realize that you are alive. You realize that you did not lose consciousness. You will not lose consciousness at any point for the rest of the evening. Kind strangers appear and dial 911. You hear the words run over and North Capitol and K Street intersection. Later, the ambulance record will indicate that help arrived in 6 minutes. It feels like there are hours stowed between each one.

You know you are in pain, and you feel it now. It crashes into you. A knife has firmly sunken into your lower spine and is mockingly twisting your nerves around its blade. You feel the clean breaks in your bones splinter and grind against each other inside your chest. It hurts to breathe so you do so quickly and measuredly without realizing it. The ambulance arrives and you are lifted onto a stretcher. This will hurt more than you can begin to fully process yet.

Before you can go to the hospital, the cops must interview you. I am only in town for the holidays; I was walking my brother’s dog; I tripped and fell on the crosswalk; I felt a tire on my back; I cannot breathe; the dog is fine; please make sure the dog gets home safely; please call my brother; here is my cell phone; please call my brother; this really hurts; please call my brother; can we go to the hospital now?; please call home; this really hurts; please call home; please tell them I am alive; please do not worry them; please call home; please tell them I am alive; please do not worry them; please can we go to the hospital now; please this really hurts; please call home; please tell them I am alive; please do not worry them.

Before you can go to the hospital, the EMTs must evaluate you in the ambulance. No, I don’t have any known allergies to medication; no, I do not have any prior medical conditions; no, I am not pregnant; how much longer until we’re there?; yes, my blood pressure tends to run low; it hurts most in my lower back; the pain is a 7 out of 10 (why on earth would you say that?); how much longer until we’re there?; the last thing I had was pizza; it was an hour or two ago; how much longer until we’re there?; yes, I understand that you must strip me; yes, I understand that the bra must come off too; yes, I understand that you must cut my jeans off with the scissors; how much longer until we’re there?

(The following day you will receive a direct message on Instagram. It will read: Hey beautiful, this is the firefighter that helped you and took you to the hospital. Do you want to hang out or do you have a boyfriend? I would love to show you my city. You will look at the profile. You will recognize the man who had the scissors. Who used them to roughly rip your jeans apart from bottom to groin on both legs. Who pried the jeans off your body. You will find this message amusing at first. Before the weight of the 2016 C 300 4MATIC Mercedes Benz Sedan settles into your psyche. Before you realize you are in the ICU because they are not confident you will live. Before you get off the fentanyl and the oxycodone. Then you will reread the screenshot of his messages. And reread them. And reread them. After you see your own body days later, you will wonder what exactly it was that he found beautiful. Whether it was the road rash on your lower back. ((A lascivious spot -- maybe you should have had the second tire roll over your legs instead.)) Or maybe it was the blood covering your right knee. You will wonder how lovely your breasts must have looked to distract him from the bruises on your ribcage. You will wonder what he was thinking about when he looked at your thighs as you were being attached to oxygen. You will wonder how attractive your thrashed and thorned body had to have been in that moment. You will wonder how he found you on Instagram until you remember that he had your ID. You will block him. This will not stop the intrusive thoughts. This will not stop the nightmares. The ones where he uses the scissors, but does not stop when he reaches the end of the inseam.)

Later, the ambulance record will indicate that you reached the hospital in 4 minutes. It feels like there are hours stowed between each one. To move you from stretcher to hospital bed, the doctors must lift the sheet you are laying on top of. This will put you in the most upending and harrowing amount of pain you have ever experienced. As they move you, your body sinks into the sheet and every bone and organ you know (but haven’t yet confirmed) is broken collide and crumble against one another in affliction and distress. You do not cry.

The emergency room is as rapid as it is sterile. There are people hovered around you talking to each other, introducing themselves, taking off your jewelry, putting you in a gown, reminding you that there is no modesty in medicine, connecting you to tubes, taking your x-rays, propping you up, sitting you down, putting you in a neck brace, putting you in an oxygen mask, asking you questions, storing your things, being warm, being impatient, being polite, being cold.

They must move you again. You beg them to count you down and explain that you are in so much pain. They become annoyed with you. They try distracting you and lifting you while you are not paying attention. As if you were not completely conscious. You get upset. You tell them it isn’t fair. You tell them none of them just got run over by a car. (You don’t actually say that. Days later, you will imagine that you had to make yourself feel better.) Later, the medical record will describe you as disoriented.

You know your brother is on his way to see you. You know how terrible you must look. The neck brace. The oxygen mask. The hair scattered around your face. The hospital gown. The tubes. You ask your nurse to tell your brother it’s not that bad. She has very simple instructions. Your brother arrives. He is your big brother. He is unwell at the sight of you. Your nurse tells him she is surprised you are doing so well. You are annoyed – she had very simple instructions. You reassure him that you are okay. You are alive. You are not paralyzed. You reassure him that you are okay. He holds your hand until the doctor says there is a bed waiting for you in the ICU. Your brother will come back tomorrow. You are so sad he has to make it home on his own. Your mother will fly in from Chicago tomorrow morning. You do not cry.

The next day, you learn that you have six rib fractures – three on the 6th, 9th and 10th ribs on your right side and three on the 6th, 7th and 8th ribs on your left. You have multiple liver lacerations with right side hematoma. You have multiple pulmonary contusions. Your x-rays reveal a right side pneumothorax and left side superior and inferior pubic ramus fractures. (Your right lung collapsed and your pelvis is fractured on the left side.) You have a right side coccyx fracture, a left side sacral alar fracture, and an L5 interior facet fracture. You have multiple abrasions on your lower back, right knee and shin and left knuckles. You must lie completely horizontally the entire day because they must make sure you do not have any neurological damage. You must be moved two more times to get an MRI done for your lower back. You are not allowed to twist or move to your side. You do not mind because doing so puts you in absolute agony. You are being put under watch for surgery because your oxygen levels are too low. You have two catheters attached to your ribcage for the pain blocks to make it easier to breathe. The doctors are attentive in the ICU, and the nurses kind. This eases your mother.

You generally keep a good disposition. You generally have a good sense of humor. You generally smile. You make your nurses laugh. You post polls on your close friends story. You make speed bump jokes. Your family does not like those. They remind you that they were preparing for a funeral. They conjure images of shipped carcasses stored in airplanes travelling from DC to Puerto Rico. They conjure images of grandmothers viewing a body in an open casket surrounded by hydrangeas, poppies, and hyacinths. You are thankful, silently, that the road rash would have been hidden.

You generally keep a good disposition. You generally have a good sense of humor. You generally smile. This makes people believe you are not in pain. This makes colleagues call you to ask about lesson plans as you are about to go in for your blood clot ultrasound. This makes students message you about recommendation letters as you are about to go in for your MRI. This makes acquaintances send lovely platitudes telling you that everything happens for a reason. This makes the doctors mis-chart your discharge wishes and delay your leave from the hospital. This makes the nurses take longer to get you your pain medication when you feel like you’re dying. You wonder what would happen if you were bitchier. But you are not bitchier. You’re just not. You think to yourself that maybe you shouldn’t have to be. You think to yourself that maybe people should just remember that you just got run over by a 2016 C 300 4MATIC Mercedes Benz Sedan. (Maybe if it was it the 2020 EQS Mercedes Benz Sedan they would remember?)

You generally keep a good disposition. You generally have a good sense of humor. You generally smile. Until it is dark out and you are alone in your hospital room. Until the uncertainty of the next few months unfolds in front of you and envelops you. It is cold. You have always had a hard time letting go. You have a hard time letting go of what you wanted this weekend to look like. You have a hard time letting go of what you wanted these next few months to look like. These next few years. You are tired of people telling you that you are lucky. You do not feel lucky. You want to breathe without your ribs hurting. You want to walk. You want to go home. You want to know if it was a 2019 E 350 4MATIC Mercedes Benz Sedan or a 2014 E 350+ Mercedes Benz Sedan.

In a week and a half, your physical therapists will say that you can, in fact, walk. It’s only excruciating because your muscles are pulling on fractured bones. That’s it! That’s the only reason it’s excruciating! You’re so lucky! You can walk! It’s only excruciating because your muscles are pulling on fractured bones! They tell you that you just have to trust your body to take steps forward. You do not know how to tell them that asking you to trust your body is like asking dying roadkill to trust a landing vulture. You do not know how to tell them that you don’t feel like your body belongs to you. It is swollen and battered. It is bruised and cut. It aches and it throbs. It stings. When you brush your hair for the first time after leaving the ICU, it is matted. You find leaves and dirt from the road where the 2013 A 220 4MATIC Mercedes Benz Sedan ran over you. (Or was it the 2013 EQS 450+ Mercedes Benz Sedan?) Your mother is present. You catch her expression. You do not feel like your body belongs to you. When you look in the mirror for the first time after arriving at your acute rehab facility, you finally see the road rash for yourself. The thigh-length plum and navy bruises. The bloodied scabs. The tapped out veins. The potholes where the needles sucked the blood out of you. They are everywhere. Your body does not belong to you.

You are tired of people touching you. You are so tired of people touching you. And you wonder to yourself if this is just what your twenties are supposed to teach you. All the different ways in which you can be touched without wanting to be. All the different ways in which you can become acquainted with pain. You can list all the ways your body has come to know it. Your body is has befriended it. Your body knows tendons tearing apart. Bones splitting in half. Nails pulling from skin. Bruises tender to the touch. Tape ripped off your arm where the IV was inserted. The twelve attempts it takes to get the needle into your vein because they are so tiny, like the rest of you. Blood in your esophagus. Gashes in your skin. Hot wax. Tear gas. Stomach shots. Soreness. Unwanted hands. Unwanted fingers. Unwanted bodies. Screaming. Sobs.

It knows ignored text messages. Eating dinner alone. Hollowness. Moving out of a shared home with someone you thought you’d spend your life with. Seeing your belongings no longer there. Seeing how little space they took up in the first place. Going home and finding that home moved away a long time ago. It knows emptiness. Hangovers. Stupor. Guilt. Jealousy. Failure. Disappointment. Isolation. Not being able to get out of bed. The realization you have to go to work the next day. The realization you work with teenagers and you cannot lose your patience with them. Hearing the kids you love call you a stupid fucking bitch for no other reason than they’re having a bad day. (They are sixteen.) Dissolved friendships. Distant friendships. Group chats you are excluded from. Trips to Europe you are not invited to. How the hospital bed felt when the boy you loved told you to just be a bit more careful next time when you tell him about the 2014 AMG EQE Mercedes Benz Sedan. (Maybe if it was the 2023 S 580 4MATIC Mercedes Benz Sedan he would have responded differently?) There is nothing to talk about after that. You are confused when he leaves your things at your apartment door while you are still lying in a hospital 1,037 miles away. Your body remembers the time stamp on the last text message he sent.

You’ve never believed that everything happens for a reason, and the 2015 EQE 450 Mercedes Benz Sedan does not change that. So you do not actually believe that your twenties are supposed to teach you anything in particular. But you still gather your trinkets of pain and hold them closely to your chest. You hug them. You set them down and pull at the thread between them, hoping to find something other than hurt in the wreckage.

You find a Taco Bell bag and confetti poppers. Roses. Sunflowers. Fruit. Poems. Songs. Text messages. Screenshots. Hoop earrings. Playing cards. Tea. Sourpatch Kids. Deodorant. Dry shampoo. Ponytails. Ribbons. Books. A puppy. A stuffed unicorn. Kombucha. FaceTime calls. From the family that has gathered prayers for you in a rain bucket and kept them safe for when you needed to bathe. From the friends who walk your dog while you are away. Who message your mom to ask her how she is doing. Who berate you when you forget to put on your back brace. Who have been waiting for you to start sobbing. Who saw it coming. Who hold you when you finally break. Who know you have to plunge into the lament before they can help lift you out of it.

You are tired. You are only twenty-six, and you are so tired. You are so tired. You are too tired. You cannot keep swimming. Your muscles are too sore. Your lung has collapsed. Your ribs have fractured. There is salt in your wounds. So you plunge. You know you will not drown. You know you will resurface. You know who will help you come back up.

You know you will take a deep, clean, painless breath when you finally do.

Gabriela Goitía Vázquez is a Puerto Rican writer and teacher based in Miami, Florida. In her spare time, she enjoys dancing Brazilian zouk and eating copious amounts of sushi.