It was a cliché: The screeching tires; the feeling of time slowing down. The scene was like something out of a film. The impact of the on-coming car moved me forward at an impossible speed. The wheel bent as my rib cage shattered. Glass broke and tore my flesh. Shards cut into my hands, arms, and face. The hood of the car gave way to asphalt. The mingling of glass, asphalt, and blood created a stench of dying. The smell of asphalt still makes me nauseas. What started as lacerations have turned into scars. They throb when a storm's coming.