Some wounds don’t bleed. They live quietly beneath the surface, hidden from the world but screaming inside. It was just a moment. A blink. A sound of crashing metal, a blur of panic, and then... silence. But that moment that cursed, violent second still follows me everywhere I go.
It wasn’t just an accident. It was the day my life changed in a way no one else could fully understand. The scars on my body healed, but the ones in my mind? They never stopped bleeding. I close my eyes, and I’m back there again. The smell of smoke, the cold fear in my chest, the helplessness it never left. Sometimes, I hear it in my dreams. Other times, in the dead silence of the night, it screams inside my head, echoing like it happened just yesterday.
I carry this memory like a shadow. People think I’ve moved on, that I’ve healed, that I’m strong. But they don’t see the battles I fight in silence. The flashbacks. The guilt. The “what ifs.” They don’t see me waking up in sweat or avoiding the road where it happened. They don’t feel the way my heart races every time I hear tires screech.
Sometimes I hate myself for surviving. Sometimes I wonder why that moment chose me. I try to smile, to laugh, to pretend it’s all fine but there’s a version of me that died that day, a part of me buried beneath the wreckage.
I don’t talk about it much. Not because I don’t want to but because words fail. How do you explain a storm that lives inside you when the sky outside looks so calm?
It's not just the physical struggle. It's the invisible ache. The pity in people's eyes, the questions they’re too afraid to ask, the dreams that had to be rewritten. It's the frustration of needing help when I once prided myself on independence. It’s the nights I cry quietly, so no one hears because even strength gets tired of pretending.
People say time heals everything. But what about the wounds that go beyond skin? What about the kind of pain that rewrites your entire existence?
Eight years later, I still carry the weight of that night. But I also carry something stronger the will to survive. And maybe that’s enough, for now.
Departed Marcello
It wasn’t just an accident. It was the day my life changed in a way no one else could fully understand. The scars on my body healed, but the ones in my mind? They never stopped bleeding. I close my eyes, and I’m back there again. The smell of smoke, the cold fear in my chest, the helplessness it never left. Sometimes, I hear it in my dreams. Other times, in the dead silence of the night, it screams inside my head, echoing like it happened just yesterday.
I carry this memory like a shadow. People think I’ve moved on, that I’ve healed, that I’m strong. But they don’t see the battles I fight in silence. The flashbacks. The guilt. The “what ifs.” They don’t see me waking up in sweat or avoiding the road where it happened. They don’t feel the way my heart races every time I hear tires screech.
Sometimes I hate myself for surviving. Sometimes I wonder why that moment chose me. I try to smile, to laugh, to pretend it’s all fine but there’s a version of me that died that day, a part of me buried beneath the wreckage.
I don’t talk about it much. Not because I don’t want to but because words fail. How do you explain a storm that lives inside you when the sky outside looks so calm?
It's not just the physical struggle. It's the invisible ache. The pity in people's eyes, the questions they’re too afraid to ask, the dreams that had to be rewritten. It's the frustration of needing help when I once prided myself on independence. It’s the nights I cry quietly, so no one hears because even strength gets tired of pretending.
People say time heals everything. But what about the wounds that go beyond skin? What about the kind of pain that rewrites your entire existence?
Eight years later, I still carry the weight of that night. But I also carry something stronger the will to survive. And maybe that’s enough, for now.
Departed Marcello
