Sinception

The morning of Thursday the 9th of February, 2017 began like any other; I was running behind, having savoured the warmth of my bed for a few moments too long after my alarm roused me from sleep. My fiancé Dean had already departed from our flat to pull the car, a blue Nissan Micra 1998 Twister, into our street, ready for the morning drive to work. I fashioned my hair into an updo of sorts, checked our cats Smokey and Milo had plenty of water and exited our flat.

As was our way, Dean switched the radio on, tuned it to one of the least irritating stations we could agree upon and switched the overzealous heater from the Off position to the only other setting it had; Full. The boiled sweet wrapper the vacuum had claimed from the glove box in weeks past began its familiar rattle against the vent and we set off for Clydebank.

Little did we know that our routine morning jaunt was soon to take a turn.

Dean seamlessly approached the A898 slip road, our car destined for the adjoining crossing point - Erskine Bridge. As we ventured forth, the car immediately in front of ours caught our attention; a learner driver in a white Citroën, the unexperienced motorist appeared to be encountering some difficulty merging into the heavy traffic which populated the bridge. Slowing down to a near stop, the Citroën was almost stationary.

Noting the difficulty Dean’s fellow driver was experiencing but seeing no cause for concern, my eyes drifted back to my lap and the phone I held securely in my hands. I continued to type a message to Dean, a reminder of the calls he had to make that day, and the groceries he had to collect. I glanced back over the dashboard, just as Dean’s attention glanced to his driver’s side wing mirror as he checked for available space to merge.

I saw the rear side of the Citroën approaching the front passenger side of our Nissan far, far too fast.

I screamed Dean’s name even as I instinctively threw my arms outward to either side of my body, bracing for what I knew was the inevitable. All of my concious thought was forsaken as my peripheral vision focused on Dean, watching intently as his attention snapped back to the road ahead and he fought with the steering wheel of our heavy car, wrenching it violently to the right in an attempt to perform an evasive manoeuvre.. too late. Our car was not designed for such handling.

The impact.

The sudden, violent jolt as the front passenger side of our vehicle collided with 40 miles per hour of force against the rear driver side of the learner’s white Citroën. The sound of grinding, crushing metal. The white, static blur which replaces my memories of this part of the incident, serving only to permit me the recollection of the sound of screeching metal, the smell of burning rubber and the very sudden, very real awareness that we were, in fact, upside down. I cannot recall precisely where I “came to,” where my senses prevailed over the sheer determination of my brain to spare me what can only be described as hell; I believe it was when I felt the slap of a hot liquid against my face, and momentarily feared for the worst before I saw my travel mug fly from one side of the car to the other before my eyes.

We were upside down.

My memory, as steadfast as it has proven to be, does not serve to recall the precise details of the incident as clearly as I would like. My ability to process what happened could not quite reach the momentum required to par with the speed of the time frame in which this happened.

I recall sounds, primarily, and force. The sensation of the impact and the sudden, harsh jolt associated with it suddenly transformed into what can perhaps best be likened to a feeling of weightlessness as the car rolled onto the roof. The harsh press of the seatbelt on my shoulder and chest as the fabric held firm against the sudden onslaught of my full weight, and the associated knowledge that if it snapped, I would fall and likely break my neck. The screeching of metal against tarmac was an accompaniment to the thrashing of the stockpile of magazines scattered across the rear seats of the Nissan and the thwack of my travel mug soaring to the other side of the car, spilling its contents on route. Dean may have screamed my name; I honestly cannot recall.

I do remember one aspect of the situation, perhaps because it seems so peculiar to me; I was not frightened. In fact, I felt at peace. I knew that the car was rolling, that my earthly being had no control over the situation in which we had found ourselves and that no matter what the outcome, we were now fated to continue along the path upon which we had begun. For better, or for worse.

When the car eventually came to a halt, I was relieved to note that it was upright again, settled on all four wheels. I instantly moved, freeing my limbs from their brace position and checking that my body was in full working order. My first thought was for Dean and I turned to him, relief flooding my body when I discovered him concious, breathing and seemingly uninjured. I turned to my door, and attempted to release the mechanism and exit the car, but my door wouldn’t move. Just then, Dean’s voice broke my reverie of thought as he yelled, “Get out! Get out! Get out!” I scrambled from the driver side door and stood, shaking, outside the car.

My hands, which were usually as firm as those of a surgeon, were unsteady. I noticed that I was bleeding profusely from what appeared to be a small, insignificant cut on my left index finger. I peered closely at the wound for a brief moment and quickly identified the cause; I extended my right hand and pried from the cut a small shard of what appeared to be windscreen glass. It was then that a concerned motorist, who had clearly witnessed the accident whilst travelling on the opposite side of the bridge, pulled over and hailed me, asking if we were okay. I replied in the affirmative, then the realisation hit me that I could not make out the face of the driver. My glasses had flown off. Thankfully, Dean located both them and my phone, discarded in the heat of the moment, in the back seat of the car.

At that moment, a concerned driver approached us. From what I was able to glean from the situation, our fellow driver had witnessed the collision and in a moment of what in my honest opinion was sheer selfishlessness, he had stopped his van diagonally across the dual carriageway, preventing other vehicles from mounting the bridge at the legal speed limit of 50 miles per hour and colliding with the passenger side of our immobilised Nissan. He had been waving the other drivers back prior to approaching us, when he then pleaded with me to allow him to phone an ambulance. I agreed and we walked to the side of the road, where the driver of a silver Mitsubishi called to me. I greeted her and she immediately asked me if I would like a cigarette, to which I readily agreed.

It later transpired that the driver, whose name I was never given, had chosen to pull over and essentially park at the bottom of the slip road as she was feeling unwell behind the wheel. I bear no ill will towards the driver in question, despite the fact that she then appeared to feel well enough to leave the scene moments later, prior to the arrival of the emergency services. Fleeing from the scene of an accident is a crime.

Dean immediately called his mother to notify her of what had occurred, and I contacted my workplace to inform them that I would not be in attendance at the office for my shift that day. Shortly following the termination of our respective calls, the van driver approached us once again, offering to supply me with a bandage for my finger, which I then noticed had bled almost all of the way down my arm. I accepted, and wrapped the bandage around my affliction. It was crude but it served to stem the bleeding until the ambulance, which had responded in a mere ten minutes, arrived at the scene. We were gently directed to enter the ambulance by two professional, friendly medical personnel. Their relaxed demeanour immediately put us both at ease as they performed routine tests on our respective heart rates, blood pressures and oxygen saturations. They laughed with us as we basked in the sheer relief that we were alive. A highlight of the situation, if you can accept that there is such a thing, was this; Dean had never experienced a fingertip blood sugar test before, and swore when they pricked his finger with the minute pen needle. He hastily apologised, to which they replied, “It’s okay - we like swearers!”

The medical personnel completed their assessment and requested that we sign the relevant paperwork to confirm that we had declined to attend hospital, but would do so should any worrisome symptoms arise. During the time span encompassed by the various tests they performed, Dean’s parents and grandfather had arrived at the scene, and several moments were had during which reassuring words were uttered and tight embraces were shared. The police then performed their appropriate duties; our statements were taken, as were our contact details, Dean was breathalysed. Dean’s parents then drove us to their home, where we exchanged some mild conversation but mostly sat in stunned silence.

Throughout all of this, there were intermittent moments which only serve to add to the surreal element of the situation;

I discovered that the learner driver was in fact a young woman with whom I attended school. She came to the ambulance door, mascara staining her face, and apologised repeatedly for what had happened. She was on her way to her driving test.

I witnessed true shock that day, when the ambulance door opened and the driving instructor was escorted into the ambulance by a police officer. Stuttering, confusing sentences poured from her mouth and she asked repeatedly for water, a request the police officer granted. As it stands, we discovered that day that fire crews always carry bottled water.

So, it seems that “you don’t just walk away from an accident like that.” We were sore, yes, for days afterwards; I had a seatbelt bruise across my chest, and a sizeable bump on my head. I also had to remove a further shard of windscreen glass from the index finger of my left hand only days later. But we were alive.

Our Nissan, affectionately dubbed with the moniker, “SOCK” after its registration plate, S468 OCK, is gone now. Our insurance company valued the car at £500, with an estimated repair bill standing at £3500; a “Total Loss.” The wing mirrors were gone. The windscreen was shattered and had freed itself from the bracket directly above the driver side. Both headlights were smashed. One tyre, at least, was flat and another had a hub cap missing. The paintwork was ruined and there were several large dents on various sections of the vehicle, with the worst being on the passenger side door; not to mention the crumpled passenger side panel. Our temperamental blue Nissan Micra 1998 Twister, 2-Axle Rigid Body, 3 door was towed away by the police at their request, and held in an impound in Greenock until we arrived to collect our belongings.

It may seem cliché, but I honestly hold a new appreciation for life now. Such simple things bring a smile to my face; the wind whipping my hair around my face like a thing possessed, the rays of sunshine that pierce the pale blinds of my workplace and encase my surroundings in a halo of golden light. Small things.