I’m upside down in a car, no knowledge whatsoever as to how I got here. The seat belt is too tight; my chest is too tight. Piece by piece, my sight starts to glue itself back together. Then the panic comes, soaring skyward with every breath I take. Threatening to overcome me, threatening to tear me apart. I have just one thought: I need to get out of this car.
I try to pull at the seat belt that’s pinning me in my seat. Even with every inch of my strength, the strap doesn’t budge. I thrash against it, twisting, trying to gain myself some freedom. That’s when I see her. Her body is limp against her seat belt, but there is something I don’t recognize. Like a déjà vu that can’t be explained. I look away; I have to look away.
There are sequins everywhere: on the dashboard, on the roof of the car, mixed in haphazardly with the shattered glass. I start to recall a dress. A green sequined dress for a party. The radio is on in the background. A song comes to its end, the music fading into speech. I hear three words: Happy New Year.
And I remember.
I twist to look at G. Her eyes are open this time. Alive, but something’s not right. My sight is suddenly too clear, every movement in high definition. I lift my arms to reach for her, but, no longer lifeless, she pulls away from me. That’s when I see it. One of her arms is bleeding, long trails pouring from a deep, jagged bone-baring cut from wrist to elbow. I look down at myself, expecting to see an identical one—the one I know so well—but it’s not there.
The sequins lose their shine, coated with even more blood. I can’t work out where it’s all coming from. My gaze travels to my hands, which are mangled, bent out of shape. In an instant I feel everything shift, my legs twist at funny angles, I start to taste blood, whole mouthfuls of it. I look desperately at her for help.
Her lips start to move and her words—dark, unforgiving—hit me loud and clear: “You did this…”
Then the world starts to rewind all around us. The car flips back onto its wheels, seating us upright. The glass starts to repair itself before my eyes. The sequins reattach themselves—to her dress. My body starts to straighten again. The door next to me starts to smooth itself out, removing all trace of impact from its surface. There is a terrible crunching noise, like metal contracting. Headlights draw away into the distance. Time stops. The road is still.
I hear the echo, over and over again. A warning, a declaration, an admonishment. You did this. You did this. You did this.
And then we press play. The headlights bear down upon us again, and I look at her one last time, before everything shatters.
I open my eyes and sit up, gasping for air. In one instinctive movement, I check my hands. They are whole, unmarked. They are mine, not hers. I jolt out of bed, down the ladder.
I can’t go back to sleep.
But mostly, I just can’t breathe.