".... a car hit an armadillo in the dark, spinning out of control as the tires blew. Forty-three year old Brian Rogers and his wife Rose, flipped three times before landing in this stand of trees, well hidden from the road. Passing motorists spotted the car and stopped, calling the police. Rose Rogers is in Jess Parrish Medical Center, listed in critical condition. Her husband was pronounced dead on the scene, his body cut in half when he was thrown from the car."
"Brian?" Horrified, Blythe turned off the TV. "I saw that accident. I was there!" Hands over her mouth, Blythe lay in bed, trying hard to come to grips with what she'd seen and heard. "I was there!" she whispered. "I'm losing my mind," she decided. "I need to go to the doctor tomorrow. I'm going crazy. I must have a brain injury."
She didn't want to wake her parents, but she didn't want to be alone. She reached for her phone, intent on calling the one person who wouldn't mind being woken from a deep sleep. Her hand hovered over the dial and she remembered. The phone fell from limp fingers, clattering to the floor. Blythe burst into tears. The one person she most wanted to call couldn't answer the phone, because he was dead. Sobbing, she curled up once more, trying to sleep.
Morning sun peeped in over the window sill, finding the tiny gap between the curtains. A finger of light pierced the twilight of her room, poking her in the eye. Muttering and grumbling, Blythe rolled over, surprised when she didn't cry out in pain from lying on her right side. She dozed a little while longer, but she really needed to pee. She was able to rise easily, though she walked stiffly to the bathroom.
The bruises on her neck were less vivid, but the bruising on her breast and chest looked worse than ever. Remembering her horrible dreams, she decided she needed to see the doctor. There was a walk-in clinic not far away. It was open on Sunday. Her father could take her over. Or maybe she should go to the hospital. If it was a brain injury, they would need an X-ray or an MRI. That would probably be the better choice.
At breakfast, she broached the subject with her parents. She didn't want to tell them about the dreams, but they might not understand why she thought she was hallucinating. How could she explain to them that she'd seen an accident soon after it happened? It made no sense. Instead, she complained of a headache, which was the truth. Having the sun wake her like that, had been painful. She was prone to migraines because of bright lights.
Her father agreed to take her, and they left soon after breakfast. Blythe rode to the hospital with her eyes closed, sunglasses on. It was a bright day, the sky cloudless, a light wind blowing. It was a welcome relief after all the rain over the last five days.
Not long after they arrived, Elam appeared in the waiting room. He wasn't dressed in his uniform. He wore jeans and a T-shirt. He sat next to Blythe, his arm around the back of her seat.
"Are you okay? The receptionist called me when you were back seeing the nurse." His hand went to her forehead, while he gazed into her eyes.
"I don't know," she said quietly.
Her father had gone outside for a smoke.
"I think maybe I hit my head after all. I keep seeing things, having really strange dreams."
"Marigold said you were complaining of a headache." He took her pulse.
Blythe giggled. "Are you Doctor Elam now?"
Elam smiled. "I'm also a paramedic. Your pupils seem okay, your pulse is steady, no fever."
"Thank you." She slapped at his hands. "I feel like I'm going crazy," she whispered. "I keep seeing things—horrible things. Accidents. Dreaming about them." She told him about the death of Brian Rogers, how she'd been there, seen the aftermath of the accident.
"Blythe, you were just in an accident. It's probably your mind playing tricks. Probably not medical at all."
"I know. I keep telling myself that. But I'm still hallucinating, right? How could I possibly have seen that accident last night? I don't know. I just don't know."
Elam leaned closer. "You're not going crazy. You had a traumatic experience. It's bound to make someone a little wonky."
"How do you explain the man I saw at the scene, the one who helped move the car?"
"You said that Jessamine told you there was no man."
"I saw him," she insisted. "I heard his voice. I smelled his cologne."
"It was probably the police officer."
"No, he got there afterward, and he didn't look like the other man. The first guy was about your age, tall, with black hair about to here." She touched his neck just below his ear. "It was wavy, thick. He had a goatee and dark brown eyes. And a really big nose. Like Roman statue big."
Elam chuckled. "You just described my uncle Nick. Only he's fifty. And he lives in Atlanta."
"I'm not kidding," Blythe persisted.
"I know you aren't. There has to be an explanation. Ah, here's your ride. I'll tell your dad where you are." He squeezed her hand. "Take good care of this one, Paul," he cautioned the orderly who wheeled her away.
"Only kind I take, Elam. See you in a few."
©2022 Dellani Oakes
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