Blinded by the Lights

I must have been 5 or 6 years old, or even younger when this happened. My mom and my aunt had taken me out with them, and we were returning home late at night in a dark alley. I trailed behind him, occupied by my own little games, walking carefully along the kurb, and jumping off when I grew tired. The road was lined with traveling cars, big and loud, their lights flashing through the darkness, like beams from another world. I had no idea what makes or models they were, only that they were gigantic, rumbling beasts on wheels. Their engines growled, horns honked occasionally, and the rush of air when they sped past made my hair flutter. I remember feeling thrilled and tiny in their trail.

My mother was usually so careful with me, always checking to make sure  I was right behind. That night, though she and my aunt were caught up in conversation, their voices sometimes rising and falling as they walked further ahead. I yelled at them, first playfully and then loudly, but the noise of the street drowned my voice. They did not even glance back. Whatever they were talking about, must have been something serious. For once, I did not exist in their world, then in a blink of an eye, everything went  wrong. My toe hit the metal grid over the gutter, one of those thick grids to keep people from falling through.

But the holes were just big enough for a child's shoe to slip through. My leg dropped before I could catch it, the rough metal scraping along my ankle. I screamed, my body twisting to the side, my left side now leaning dangerously toward the street. My hands flew to my leg, fingers grasping the icy, pliable bars, as I fought to pull myself free. But the harder I pulled, the firmer the metal grip seemed to be. My breath came in sharp gasps, tears forming in my eyes, clouding my vision. That was when I saw it. A car, enormous and black, speeding towards me. The headlights blinded me, all I could see was a white mist.

I screamed for my mom, my voice cracking. But the sound of the engine drowned me out. The driver did not see me, I was too small, too near to the ground. The car wasn't slowing down. My whole body trembled, as I tugged and pulled, my fingers sliding on the metal. The car was now so close that I could hear the screech of tires on the pavement. In the last moment, my foot finally ripped loose. I jumped back, onto the sidewalk as the car whooshed past. The wind left behind, hit me like a slap, making my wet clothes go cold. My heart was racing, my legs shaking as I struggled to stand up.

I just sat there for a moment, gasping and dazed, staring at where I had almost been hit. When I finally hobbled my feet and caught up with my mom and aunt, my words were so trembling, as I tried to tell them what had happened to me, but they only looked at me in confusion, as if I was telling them some wild story I'd come up with myself. No shock, no apology, just a dismissive shrug off the shoulder. To this day, I don't know if they truly did not hear me or if they didn't want to believe that they had almost lost me that night. But it doesn't matter anyway. What matters is that I survived, although no one else was aware of how close it had been. Sometimes the most terrifying moments are the ones we have to face completely alone. And sometimes, the only person who will ever know the truth is you.