I Stand Amid the Roar

First, I was electric.

The motorcycle roars beneath me, a living, breathing force that thrums through my entire body. It’s as if I’m not just riding but merging with its raw mechanical energy. Trees blur past in a fiery cascade of reds, oranges, and yellows. The wind fights against me, my helmet shielding my face, while my black curls whip around in the breeze. This is the peak of exhilaration, I think, grinning wildly. If only I could bottle this euphoria and share it with the world. Maybe I’d give the first few bottles away for free, just to find someone who understands this pure, unfiltered joy.

I blink, surprised to find small tears forming in my eyes.

“You feel electric,” a gruff voice says. I look over to see a bear-like man pointing to the aging black Harley-Davidson beside him. “There’s nothing else like it.”

Suddenly, I’m sitting on the warm concrete of a driveway, my spindly, child-like legs crossed in front of me. I watch as he picks up a toothbrush and scrubs delicately, his dark, hairy hands working carefully around the tight corners of the machine. I giggle, and he responds with a crooked grin and a wink.

“You need to take care of a fine ride like this. Promise me, mija, that when I get you a bike of your own one day, you’ll treat her with respect,” he says, his mock severity softening into paternal warmth that makes my heart swell. It hits me with a jolt—this is my father. The sudden clarity is both startling and comforting.

“Please, focus.”

It isn’t my father who speaks but a distant voice, as if I’m submerged at the bottom of a pool, hearing someone speak from above. The faint smell of gasoline tickles my nose, dragging me back to the present. I’m speeding along on my father’s old bike, the one I inherited after he succumbed to lung cancer a year ago. Ahead, a water tower looms through the trees—I’m nearing town.

Reluctantly, I ease up on the throttle, preparing to slow down to the neighborhood speed limit. Technically, I shouldn’t even be riding this beast; I had to pick the lock on my abuela’s shed to free it. In a few months, I’ll be old enough for a license, but for now, I need to ride cautiously. A white car approaches the stop sign on Caroll Street.

I tense as the air seems to be vacuumed from my lungs. Time crystallizes, and I feel like an insect trapped in amber.

“I don’t want to see this,” I whisper.

A dark shroud spreads from the edges of my vision, encroaching to block the impending scene.

“I’m so sorry, you have to keep going,” the distant voice echoes. The smell of gasoline returns, and the foggy black mist lifts. Time resumes, but it moves at a glacial pace. I scream internally as the white car and I inch closer, our paths converging with agonizing certainty.

Please stop, please stop, please stop, I think, not sure if I’m pleading with the car or with myself. We inch closer in slow motion, and for a brief moment, I see the car isn’t stopping at the stop sign.

“We’ve seen enough, thank you.”

Next, came heat.

Time accelerates to a frenetic pace. My world spins into chaotic disarray. I still feel fused with my motorcycle, but now this unity is horrifying as we skid across the asphalt. The impact against the guardrail is a sickening metallic crunch, my head snapping back as bursts of color cloud my vision.

When silence falls, I’m wedged between the ground and my bike, no longer an insect in amber but a butterfly pinned to a board. Acrid black smoke swirls around me, its sting sharp in my nostrils. My helmet, now cracked, offers scant protection. Dazed, I lift my head, trying to make sense of the chaos. The white car’s front fender is dented, and between us lies a grotesque trail of red and black—melted flesh and shattered motorcycle parts.

“Stop! Wake her doctor, we’ve seen enough.”

The voice sounds distant, as if from above. A man stumbles out of the car, his face pallid, one hand over his mouth, the other clutching his head. Did he just speak? He doesn’t approach me. I want to scream, beg him to help, but it feels as if I’ve swallowed a volcano. When I open my mouth, only a gurgle of red lava escapes. Our eyes meet as I gasp for air, breaths shallow and rapid like a fish out of water.

The trembling man collapses to his knees, his hands now shielding his face. Why isn’t he helping me? My gaze drifts to my leg and arm visible above the bike. They seem relatively unscathed, offering a fleeting sense of calm. I take a shuddering, blessedly deep breath. My panic and confusion ebb slightly, just enough for my brain to process the overwhelming, searing pain as I glance beneath the bike at the mangled remnants of my right arm and leg.

I squeeze my eyes shut, a moan escaping my lips.

“I know it hurts, mi amor,” a soothing voice says. I feel myself being cradled in warm, comforting arms. I look up into the honey-brown eyes of a woman. I’m younger now, smaller than when I watched my father clean his motorcycle. The skin on my knee has been viciously scraped off, and my green trike lies abandoned on the sidewalk. I hiccup, my lower lip trembling as I struggle to hold back a sob.

“It’s a good thing you’re muy fuerte,” the woman says. Her brilliant smile sweeps away all my pain. The woman is my mother. How did I not recognize her before? I have few memories of her since she passed away when I was very young, but here she is now. I wrap my arms around her neck, feeling a profound sense of safety and strength. This overwhelming comfort and love is what I should bottle up and share. I wouldn’t sell it; I’d give it freely.

“What’s wrong, why isn’t it working?”

I hear the words and frown. Who said that? The image of my mother and the comfort she brought begin to fade.

In the end, everything was cold.

“H-help is on the way,” the man from the white car says, taking hesitant steps toward me. “Is there anything I can do? Can I call s-someone for you?” I see his lips move, but his voice is a fearful whisper, as if he’s afraid to wake me from a frightful nightmare.

“Ahb,” is all I manage to say. My body is freezing, and I’m surprised I didn’t see my breath. My phone was in my right pocket, but I can no longer feel my limbs. The pain that was all-consuming has retreated beneath a layer of ice.

I shake uncontrollably, my eyes turning to the sky. It’s so liquid blue, so close. If only I could lift my arm, I’d scoop some of that sky and cup it in my hand. What does the sky taste like?

“Just hold on a moment longer, we’re almost at the end. I’m so sorry.”

As my vision blurs, the scene shifts, and the cold deepens. My eyes close briefly, and when I open them, I’m in a stark, clinical space. The cold now feels like the chill of a hospital room. Blurred figures loom over me and look at a screen above my bed, their voices muffled but their intent clear. I realize with horror that the last few minutes were an illusion—a fabricated dream conjured by doctors and lawyers. They had orchestrated this sequence with drugs and neurostimulation, turning my coma into a canvas to display my story and extract every detail leading up to the accident, all in pursuit of proving culpability.

The cold reality of their intrusion into my fractured consciousness settles over me like a heavy shroud. I want to scream, to escape this orchestrated nightmare, but my body remains frozen, my voice silenced.

“Did we get everything we need?” a man in a white lab coat asks, tapping a pen against a clipboard.

“We might need to run it a few more times,” a man in a dark gray suit replies, rubbing his chin pensively. “To ensure consistency.”

First, I was scared. I wanted to plead not to be trapped in this dream world again. How often would they force me to relive the most terrifying moments of my life? Next, came hope—would I see my parents again? A small bubble of excitement floated within me. This desire to see them felt so viscous that I could almost grasp it, cup it in my hands, and watch it slip through my fingers. This is the last thought I have as my consciousness fades, my grip on remaining awake and aware slipping away. In the end, everything was cold.