Between the Screech and the Silence

The screech still echoes in the deep reaches of my mind.

The haunting sound would be the only thing I remembered if it weren’t for the angel who pulled me off the concrete after the car made contact with my body.

Now, he is all I remember from the crash. He is the only thing that matters.

When my eyes fluttered open, I could feel my legs twitching, but when his calm eyes connected with mine, my whole body started to wiggle excitedly. I couldn’t control myself. He was so peaceful in the moment, and there I was—shaking and crying. I would even describe it as joyful to see him.

His hair fell over his shoulders, and a tight beard hugged his face. His body flexed as he helped me to my feet, but I couldn’t walk, so he carried me. The feeling of someone lifting me in their arms was something I had never felt before. It was like I was helpless—pitiful. Yet, since it was him, the little girl in me couldn’t have been happier.

I remember the coldness of the hospital bed—it felt like metal against me—but his warm touch calmed me. His words soothed me. Before they took me back to surgery, he caressed my face and ran his fingers through my hair. If I could have taken a picture of that moment and kept it close to me forever, I would have.

When I closed my eyes, I pictured the life we could have together. Mornings could start with cuddling warmly in bed. Then, black coffee for him and breakfast. He could tell me about his dreams and whether he slept well or not. I thought about the cold air on my face if we took a morning walk together. I could picture the cotton-candy pink sky as the sun peeked out over the horizon.

When he would leave for work, I’d give him a big hug and a sloppy kiss on the way out to let him know I would be here when he got back. Lord knows I wouldn’t give up something this wonderful. But no matter how much I wanted this life, my mind always conjured the worst possible thought—what if he never came back?

Then, as if no time had passed at all, my eyes opened. There he was. This time, my body shook with happiness.

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The sound still visits me in dreams.

That shriek of metal and rubber, that split second when the world narrowed to a single, irreversible moment.

Then, silence.

And in the middle of the road, a small body trembled against the cold.

I don’t remember pulling over. My hands moved before my mind caught up. One moment, I was behind the wheel, heart slamming against the cage of my ribs; the next, I was kneeling on the asphalt, whispering to something fragile and broken and alive.

“Hey,” I said softly. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Her chest fluttered like a trapped bird under my palm. She smelled of dirt and rain. Her fur, matted and streaked with fear, was softer than I expected. I slipped my arms beneath her and felt her weight, impossibly light, as if she could vanish if I let go.

The vet’s lights glowed faintly at the edge of town. I don’t remember the drive, only the way I kept talking to her, words spilling from me like prayers. You’re okay. Hold on. You’re okay.

Inside, the cold table clanged as I laid her down. Her eyes searched mine, full of pain and something deeper, trust, maybe, or forgiveness. When the nurse reached for her, she whimpered, and I pressed my hand gently to her head.

“She’s in shock,” the vet murmured. “We’ll do everything we can.”

And then they took her away.

Time dissolved into the sterile hum of fluorescent lights. I don’t know how long I stayed in the waiting room, the weight of that moment pressing into me like penance.

When the door finally opened, the vet smiled. “She’s awake.”

I walked into the recovery room, and there she was, wrapped in white sheets, a small patch shaved on her side, eyes half-lidded but bright. When she saw me, her tail tapped weakly against the blanket. The sound was so faint, but it filled the room like a heartbeat.

That was the moment something inside me broke and rebuilt all at once.

Now, mornings begin with the thump of paws on hardwood, the low hum of a world reborn. She curls beside me on the couch, head resting against my leg, breathing steady as the tide. When I leave, she stands at the window, watching until the truck disappears. When I return, she greets me like I’ve been gone for years.

Sometimes, late at night, when the street outside goes quiet, I still hear it—the screech, the impact, the sharp inhale of fate. But then I feel her weight against me, warm and steady, reminding me that out of the wreckage came something softer than mercy.

I thought I had saved her that night.

But the truth is simpler, and far more profound.

She saved me.