Through the Headlights

Cassandra G

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There is darkness all around me, except for the LED beams that light the road ahead. The cold asphalt rolls against my tires as I glide over the freeway at an astonishing rate of speed. The deep, rumbling bass makes me quake as my driver turns up the volume, which is not unusual because his best friend is riding with him. I feel the chilly air whistle through me as they roll my windows down. I hear my driver complain loudly as he texts his parents what time he’ll be home. I listen with growing concern as his best friend in the passenger seat pleads, “C’mon, man, let me see the phone”. This is about the time I notice my tires shift slightly to the left. I am drifting into the next lane, but my driver doesn’t seem to notice. Unfortunately, he also doesn’t notice the truck quickly approaching on my left, precisely where we are drifting. No, he doesn’t notice the truck until it rams into my back, clipping my back tire. The world spins and tumbles around in a blur of dark and light and asphalt. The bass rumbles, and it somehow mixes with the piercing screams coming from within me. And now there’s only darkness… I wake up to the shrieks of sirens. Everything is tinged with the red lights of a firetruck, an ambulance, a police car. Also, everything is upside down; my tires sit idly above me, and my roof is crumpled under the entirety of my weight. Something isn’t right… where is my driver? I do not feel his warmth behind my steering wheel, the pressure of his foot on my pedals. He would never leave me in this uncomfortable position unless of course, he is busy on that phone again. That phone has never prevented him from steering me in the right direction before, never stopped him from pushing the gas until we’re beyond limitations like speed. But where is he? At least twenty-five percent of all car collisions involve phone use. Don’t become a statistic.